vehicle, unsure of how
to help.
A note was taped above the doorknob of the house. It was written on a sheet of computer paper, and Lanny immediately recognized
Miranda’s handwriting. He pulled the paper from the door and, before reading the note, tried to turn the knob. Locked.
Monday, 8/17
Mom and Dad,
It’s now 10:15. Didn’t you remember that yon were driving me to the airport at 10:30? When I came back from my jog I was thinking
you’d be here. Also, Lanny UMS been trying to call me on my cell, but somehow all I get are the messages, not the actual call. Lanny is suck a joker. He
said that a BP station, in, Atlanta is charging non,-Christians $6.66 per gallon, for gas. Imagine that!
I’ve, tried to call your cdl but all I get is beeps. Same for Lanny’s.
I can, still make my 11
:45
flight if We hurry. In cast you return, here and I’m not around, I’ll be out looking for you down at the marina. That’s the
only place I figure you could be. Surely you didn’t take off again for the Bahamas!
If I dont find you, I’ll probably call a cab. Oh, Lanny left a second message that he would be willing to drive here to get
me. With gas so high, I wish he, would reconsider. But that is so sweet.
I’ll find you two shortly.
Love,
M
When he finished the note, Lanny could barely think. He pounded on the door but got no answer. He peered in the windows but
saw no lights. He opened the black leather travel bag, saw some clothes that looked like Miranda’s, but nothing else. Finally
he wrote on the back of Miranda’s note:
8/18 2:35 p.m.
gone to the marina to look for you.
Lanny
He taped the note back to the door, ran over to Ned’s Mercedes, and climbed in.
“Head to Bluewater Marina,” he said, anxious to get going.
“No sign of her?” Ned asked and backed out of the driveway.
“Just hurry, man.”
My wife tried to burn Larry’s manuscript.
On Friday morning I came downstairs to make toast and orange juice—and found Angie kneeling in front of our fireplace. Keep
in mind that this was August, in Atlanta, and the woman had lit gas logs.
Our relationship had endured moments like this in the past. She had burned a copy of Larry’s
Aliens Invade Billy Graham Crusade
manuscript the previous fall. Well, truth be told, I had offered her the matches for that one.
The previous fall, however, our finances were good. I had just sold several projects and put six months of living expenses
in the bank. Now here we were, ten months later, depleting our savings to pay our mortgage and the college tuition for our
son, Zach, a sophomore at Auburn.
Not today, Angie dear
I crept up behind her and plucked the first three chapters from her hand just as she was about to insert them into the flames.
Oddly, I found the whole thing comical—my wife kneeling on Berber carpet in her gym shorts and Braves T-shirt, about to torch
Larry’s work because it offended her.
“You know there are several copies of that, honey,” I said, folding the papers and stuffing them in my bathrobe pocket. “Two
have already been sent out to L.A.”
Angie remained kneeling, facing the flames and nodding her head. “I know,” she said softly. “But I’m worried about you, Ned.”
I stood behind her with outstretched palms. “Don’t you understand, honey? I can’t sit around and hope that some famous screenwriter
will just knock on the door and want me to go sell his stuff and earn a big advance from which I’ll get fifteen percent. I
have to pound the pavement and sell something.”
She reached out and turned off the gas logs. “I could support us.”
I knelt beside her and tried to explain my motivation. “Angie, your editing work brought in nine-thousand dollars last year.
Six the year before that. If I don’t sell something soon we’ll have to live under an 1-85 bridge with what’s his name.”
“Victor?”
“The guy we gave our chicken wings to after the Braves
to help.
A note was taped above the doorknob of the house. It was written on a sheet of computer paper, and Lanny immediately recognized
Miranda’s handwriting. He pulled the paper from the door and, before reading the note, tried to turn the knob. Locked.
Monday, 8/17
Mom and Dad,
It’s now 10:15. Didn’t you remember that yon were driving me to the airport at 10:30? When I came back from my jog I was thinking
you’d be here. Also, Lanny UMS been trying to call me on my cell, but somehow all I get are the messages, not the actual call. Lanny is suck a joker. He
said that a BP station, in, Atlanta is charging non,-Christians $6.66 per gallon, for gas. Imagine that!
I’ve, tried to call your cdl but all I get is beeps. Same for Lanny’s.
I can, still make my 11
:45
flight if We hurry. In cast you return, here and I’m not around, I’ll be out looking for you down at the marina. That’s the
only place I figure you could be. Surely you didn’t take off again for the Bahamas!
If I dont find you, I’ll probably call a cab. Oh, Lanny left a second message that he would be willing to drive here to get
me. With gas so high, I wish he, would reconsider. But that is so sweet.
I’ll find you two shortly.
Love,
M
When he finished the note, Lanny could barely think. He pounded on the door but got no answer. He peered in the windows but
saw no lights. He opened the black leather travel bag, saw some clothes that looked like Miranda’s, but nothing else. Finally
he wrote on the back of Miranda’s note:
8/18 2:35 p.m.
gone to the marina to look for you.
Lanny
He taped the note back to the door, ran over to Ned’s Mercedes, and climbed in.
“Head to Bluewater Marina,” he said, anxious to get going.
“No sign of her?” Ned asked and backed out of the driveway.
“Just hurry, man.”
My wife tried to burn Larry’s manuscript.
On Friday morning I came downstairs to make toast and orange juice—and found Angie kneeling in front of our fireplace. Keep
in mind that this was August, in Atlanta, and the woman had lit gas logs.
Our relationship had endured moments like this in the past. She had burned a copy of Larry’s
Aliens Invade Billy Graham Crusade
manuscript the previous fall. Well, truth be told, I had offered her the matches for that one.
The previous fall, however, our finances were good. I had just sold several projects and put six months of living expenses
in the bank. Now here we were, ten months later, depleting our savings to pay our mortgage and the college tuition for our
son, Zach, a sophomore at Auburn.
Not today, Angie dear
I crept up behind her and plucked the first three chapters from her hand just as she was about to insert them into the flames.
Oddly, I found the whole thing comical—my wife kneeling on Berber carpet in her gym shorts and Braves T-shirt, about to torch
Larry’s work because it offended her.
“You know there are several copies of that, honey,” I said, folding the papers and stuffing them in my bathrobe pocket. “Two
have already been sent out to L.A.”
Angie remained kneeling, facing the flames and nodding her head. “I know,” she said softly. “But I’m worried about you, Ned.”
I stood behind her with outstretched palms. “Don’t you understand, honey? I can’t sit around and hope that some famous screenwriter
will just knock on the door and want me to go sell his stuff and earn a big advance from which I’ll get fifteen percent. I
have to pound the pavement and sell something.”
She reached out and turned off the gas logs. “I could support us.”
I knelt beside her and tried to explain my motivation. “Angie, your editing work brought in nine-thousand dollars last year.
Six the year before that. If I don’t sell something soon we’ll have to live under an 1-85 bridge with what’s his name.”
“Victor?”
“The guy we gave our chicken wings to after the Braves
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