A Perfect Day by Richard Paul Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

notes, printer ink and reams of printer paper. I purchased several books on writing and the mechanics of getting published and lost myself not only in the craft, but also in the fantasy of being an author. Allyson had done more than throw me a safety line. She had fashioned me wings.
    Allyson and I devised a new routine: each morning we would get up together, and I would wake and dress Carson while Ally would make breakfast; then she’d do Carson’s hair. Then I would walk Carson to the bus stop while Allyson left for work. Around nine, with my girls and the commotion gone, I would go down to my den, where I would write in solitude for three to four hours straight—until the words began to back up onto themselves. Then I would emerge from my sanctum to walk for an hour to clear my mind and untangle the knots in my story. Then I would shower and dress, make myself a sandwich, then write some more, until it was time to meet Carson at the bus stop.
    Then I would take care of Carson until Allyson came home, either writing while Carson played upstairs or commencing my portion of the domestic duties. My job list included washing, vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms. On weekdays I would get dinner on. Not surprisingly our meals had become noticeably simpler, and sloppy joes and macaroni and cheese became our mainstays.
    Allyson was welcomed back to her old job. She enjoyed the interaction with adults and the chance to dress up. The greatest disadvantage was Allyson’s loss of time with Carson; that and our diminished income. Allyson made little more than half of what I had made at the station. We knew that this deficit would eventually catch up to us, but that was tomorrow’s bridge and I was making better progress on my book than I’d imagined. A hundred and three days into our new life I finished my book. It was a Friday afternoon and I met Allyson at the door holding a stack of paper three inches thick. “Da, da, da daaaah.”
    She looked at me. “What?” Then a wide smile broke across her face. “You finished it? Already?”
    “Already? I’ve been working on it for four years.” I handed her the bound manuscript and she read its cover.
    “ A Perfect Day. By Robert Mason Harlan.” She looked up. “I’ve never heard you use your middle name. It makes you sound like an author.”
    “Or a serial killer,” I said.
    She folded back the cover page. “To Allyson, my soul mate.” She smiled. “I love the title.”
    “You should. You named it.”
    “How did I name it?”
    “That day up on the mountain, when your father told you that he had brought you back home for one last perfect day.”
    “What does that have to do with your story?”
    “My book’s about a young woman and the last few months she spends with her dying father.”
    From her expression I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or upset.
    “You wrote about us?”
    I suddenly felt as if I’d been caught stealing. “It’s based on you and your father. That’s where I drew my inspiration. That time I saw you curled up next to your father was the most powerful expression of love I’ve ever seen. I wanted to write about that.”
    She again looked at the manuscript, her expression still enigmatic. “Can I read it now?”
    “I was planning to take Carson to the zoo tomorrow so that you could just read.”
    She fingered through the manuscript then looked back up. “This will be hard for me.”
    “I know. I just hope you think it’s worthy of your father.”
    She set the manuscript down and gently hugged me. “I’m so proud of you. My husband the author.”

Chapter 10
    S aturday morning came blue and promising as a child’s birthday. Carson was excited for our daddy-daughter outing and chattered incessantly as Allyson dressed her and I packed our lunches. For a six-year-old there are few things cooler than the zoo. I was equally excited for the day but for different reasons. Today was my own private Kitty Hawk: my first attempt at literary