Once Upon a Wardrobe(68)

The profound work of Max McLean of Fellowship for Performing Arts helped me see C. S. Lewis through clearer eyes, and from those eyes I started to see the pieces of Lewis’s life that have influenced Narnia.

To Amanda Bostic—you have journeyed with me from the start and you have been the greatest advocate, friend, and coconspirator. Your strength and your wisdom have carried us through so many stories both on and off the page, and I am profoundly grateful.

To Marly Rusoff, who took this story to Amanda and was its champion.

To my Friends & Fiction cohort who listen and cheer and keep me straight and sane, who understand that story is one of the most important things in our life—Mary Kay Andrews (Kathy Trocheck), Kristin Harmel, Kristy Woodson Harvey, and Mary Alice Monroe. You are my trusted allies.

To Paula McLain, Beth Howard, Ariel Lawhon, J. T. Ellison, and Signe Pike, who listened to the whispered idea at its genesis and didn’t say, “That’s nuts,” but instead said, “Go finish that book.”

To Dana Isaacson, who read the pages and helped me understand where this story might be going and why. A book whisperer they call him, and it’s very true. And a good friend—that’s true also.

To Meg Walker of Tandem Literary, my friend, marketing guru and wizard, you are the calm in the storm, and what would I do without you? I do not want to know. And to Judy Collins, webmaster and newsletter genius—I can never say thank you enough. You don’t miss a beat.

To my literary agent, Meg Ruley—our partnership has been one of the greatest joys of this year, and I am sure it will be for many more years to come. Thank you for believing in me and in my work, for loving England as much as I do, and for understanding the power in this story. To the entire team at Jane Rotrosen Agency: to Chris Prestia, Sabrina Prestia, Hannah Rody-Wright, and to Jessica Errera, Andrea Cirillo, Jane Berkey, and the entire crew who have welcomed me into a family—and a damn fine one at that.

For the team at Harper Muse—you are the dream team of the wardrobe. I am so thankful for you and for your patience, curiosity, creativity, and commitment to the written word. To Nekasha Pratt, Margaret Kercher, Laura Wheeler, Matt Bray, Marcee Wardell, and Kerri Potts. To Latasha Estelle and the sales team—without you we are just a finished book; with you we are a book on the shelf!

To the readers and librarians and booksellers—you inspire me and spur me on; you make me want to become a better writer and a better person, and I hope you love this book.

For Douglas Gresham—Joy Davidman’s son, C. S. Lewis’s stepson, and my friend—I will never find enough words to thank you for your wisdom, thoughtfulness, and kind words. In writing about your mother, I found a friend in you. I think she’d be happy about that! And to the C. S. Lewis Company, including Melvin Adams and Rachel Churchill, as always you are the keepers of a legacy, and I am always honored and humbled to work with you.

To the C. S. Lewis community far and wide, I am full of deep gratitude—including the astounding work of the C. S. Lewis Foundation, who have welcomed me and helped me along in my understanding of Lewis’s work and life. To Steven Elmore who keeps the fire burning, and to Stanley Mattson who founded the extraordinary foundation.

Always last and never least, for my family—Pat, Thomas, and Rusk, for Meagan, Evan, and to Bridgette Kea Rock, to whom this book is dedicated. For my parents, Bonnie and George, who introduced me to Lewis and let me dwell in novels such as Narnia for as long as I wanted or needed. For Barbi Burris and Jeannie Cunnion and to their extraordinary families. To Serena Vann, and Stella and Sadie who always listen to me talk about stories. To all the Henrys—I love you all fully and irrevocably.





An Excerpt from Becoming Mrs. Lewis





Prologue





1926

Bronx, New York



From the very beginning it was the Great Lion who brought us together. I see that now. The fierce and tender beast drew us to each other, slowly, inexorably, across time, beyond an ocean, and against the obdurate bulwarks of our lives. He wouldn’t make it easy for us—that’s not his way.

It was the summer of 1926. My little brother, Howie, was seven years old and I was eleven. I knelt next to his bed and gently shook his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” I whispered. “They’re asleep now.”

That day I’d come home with my report card, and among the long column of As there was the indelible stamp of a single B denting the cotton paper.

“Father.” I’d tapped his shoulder, and he’d glanced away from the papers he was grading, his red pencil marking students’ work. “Here’s my report card.”

His eyes scanned the card, the glasses perched on the end of his nose an echo of the photos of his Ukranian ancestors. He’d arrived in America as a child, and at Ellis Island his name was changed from Yosef to Joseph. He stood now to face me and lifted his hand. I could have backed away; I knew what came next in a family where assimilation and achievement were the priorities.

His open palm flew across the space between us—a space brimful with my shimmering expectation of acceptance and praise—and slapped my left cheek with the clap of skin on skin, a sound I knew well. My face jolted to the right. The sting lasted as it always did, long enough to stand for the verbal lashing that came after. “There is no place for slipshod work in this family.”