A Bettered Life

Chapter 1



The hostess put a glass of eggnog into Will’s hand, and he tasted it to find that it was virgin, just plain egg and sugar and milk. That was bad. It was a college, he reminded himself, and while the resident students mostly got plastered in their dorms right now, the collection of writing club geeks and ass-kissing honour students assembled in the lecture hall would be as sober as church ladies. Will, however, did not intend to hold an hour-long speech on a Friday evening without at least some booze in his system, and he excused himself to the bathroom briefly, glass in hand. A minute later, he had dumped about three fingers worth of eggnog into the sink and replaced it with Bacardi from his trusty stainless steel hip flask, the one he had bought on a research trip to Scotland ten years ago. When he emerged from the bathroom again, he held the glass way out of smelling range of his hostess.

They made their way through several corridors, the linoleum floor squeaking under the soles of his almost-new Oxfords. He had picked the Euro-writer outfit for the evening, a pair of tan slacks and a patterned brown sport coat over a black shirt. Even the small-rimmed pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose was part of the outfit. He didn’t need glasses yet, technically speaking, but he had started wearing them after his publicist suggested that a Nobel laureate should look properly studious on his book jackets. His hostess led him into a lobby adjoined by a set of slightly opened double doors, and Will could see a stadium-style lecture hall beyond the cracked doors.

Undoubtedly the biggest facility of its kind on campus, he thought sourly. It may hold as many as two hundred students.

“Right in here, Mister Liebkind. Professor Francisco is going to make a quick introduction, and then they’re all yours.” She smiled at Will, all professional and properly reverent of the superstar author gracing the halls of her college, and he smiled back graciously.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

His hostess opened the double doors a little further and gave a wave and a thumbs-up to the speaker behind the podium on the raised stage in the back of the room. Will saw that the lecture hall was packed, with some people standing in the aisles at the side of the room.

All of them wasting a perfectly good Friday to see the Great Novelist, he thought. And I’m wasting it pretending to know that I have a fucking clue about writing.

However, the school’s check had already cleared, so Will put on his game face and straightened his coat before opening the double doors fully, striding towards the podium like a boxer before a bout.

The speech was a well-rehearsed one; it was his standard college circuit lecture. The young crowd always liked it, and he had memorized it just about word for word. He started at the lectern, studying the assembly over the rim of his artfully tilted-down glasses, until the room was quiet and everybody looked at him in quiet and curious expectation.

Then he reached into the pocket of his sport coat, brought out a small leather case, and opened it. Inside was a gold medal, and Will took it out of its padded case and dropped it on the lectern, where it landed with a solid “thunk”. Then he picked it up again and flipped it onto his palm.

“Heavy little sucker,” he said. “Seven ounces and change, I believe. They used to be made of solid twenty-three carat gold, but they switched to eighteen-carat gold twenty-five years or so ago. We younger guys got gypped.”

This part usually brought the first chuckles from the crowd, and he was not disappointed. Some of the students laughed, and others murmured to each other when they saw the two-inch disk of gold he now held between his fingertips.

“Anyone know what this thing is?”

“Uh, the Nobel prize medal?” An eager and enterprising bespectacled girl in the front row offered the answer to the obvious question, and he gave a her a smile that made her blush.

“Yep, that’s right. The Nobel Prize for Literature. They give you that, and a cool diploma for your living room wall. Oh yeah, there was a bunch of money, too.”

More laughter. Good. Will held the medal up for everyone to see, and many of the students craned their necks to get a glimpse at it.

“The front of this thing says, ‘And they who bettered life on earth by new found mastery.’ It’s from the Sixth Song of Aeneid, and it’s written in Latin, of course, because that’s what academics use when they want to sound smart and relevant.”

The crowd was loosening up now, and the spiked eggnog did its part to loosen Will up as well.

“They gave me this thing when I was twenty-five, youngest recipient ever. In fact, I was seventeen years younger than the next youngest recipient on the list, which was Rudyard Kipling. I am speaking from experience when I tell you that giving a gold medal and ten million Swedish crowns to a twenty-five year old English Lit major is not usually a good idea.”

He grinned as the crowd broke out in laughter, and took a sip of his drink before continuing.

“Yeah, I still have the medal, as you can see. The diploma is, in fact, on my living room wall, but I have no clue what happened to all that cash between then and now.”

Another pause for laughter, and he went ahead with the script, saying the same stuff for the fiftieth time this year alone.

“Now, why am I telling you about all this? I mean, other than to dazzle you with my amazing intellect, of course.” He stowed the medal back in its case and snapped it shut.

“The point is that they gave me this thing when I was just a little older than you guys are now. In fact, I was probably a worse slacker than most of you, having changed my major twice in two years. Once it was just so I could take classes with a girl I had a crush on...”

It was a catchy speech. Will had worked on it for a day until he had gotten it right, and it still gave him a lot of mileage. It was the usual motivational junk, personal anecdotes mixed in with college jokes and bits about achievement and the universal appeal of literature, and it was all a bunch of fluffy shit. The college kids, however, tended to lap it up with applause, and he was a popular enough guest at colleges that he could stay in high-dollar hotels for a month straight during graduation season if he booked his appearances right.

Will’s brain ran on autopilot whenever he delivered the lecture, pausing in all the right spots and gauging the crowd reactions while his eyes scanned the rows of students for a specific kind of audience member. There were always a few in the crowd, and their presence was so predictable that Will had coined a term for them: glory bunnies. Those were the girls that came to his lectures all classed up, dressed in clothes that were bought or borrowed for the night, and who hung on his lips with what they hoped were sufficiently enigmatic and semi-interested smiles. After a minute or two, he had spotted the most likely candidate in the third row, a stunning blonde with blue eyes that were artfully framed by glasses every bit as unnecessary as his own. She wore her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, and her outfit was suited for a corporate office floor, not a liberal arts college. There was an air of cool superiority about her, and he made a bet with himself that she’d hang on the sleeve of his sport coat not ten minutes after the lecture was over. His gaze kept crossing hers as he concluded his speech, and near the end she was well aware of his attention, giving him sly little smiles whenever their eyes met.

He concluded his speech, basked in the applause, and listened to the closing comments of the college provost. It was always the same when Will signed up as guest speaker in Academia: a speech for the students, and a reception with plenty of elbow time for the faculty. The press was there, as always, four reporters with their attendant photographers, and even a local evening news crew looking for some six o’clock filler. Will did his usual dignified routine, shaking hands and looking into cameras so the local bigwigs could get a picture of themselves with a Nobel laureate for the office wall.

When the faculty had their fill, it was mingling time for the students. He signed copies of his book, everything from the first hardcover edition down to freshly-bought paperbacks with college bookstore stickers still on them, and patiently posed for pictures with young literature geeks who were practically exploding with excitement.

He almost lost the bet with himself, but the stunning young blonde from the third row finally sidled up to him after the initial rush. She had no book to sign, and no camera, which was refreshing. From a distance, she had been attractive; from three feet away, she was a complete knockout. Even her fellow students, who stood shoulder to shoulder waiting to shake hands with the famous writer, gave her a little room when she moved in, as if they were afraid to come too close. She was clearly well out of the league of these college guys. Here was a young woman used to dating guys who drove Porsches instead of Nissans, and who took her to French eateries instead of Denny’s. Her makeup was immaculate, perfectly accenting her blue eyes and high cheekbones, and her jewelry was sparse and classy.

Will shook a few more hands and smiled into a few more cameras, and then it was her turn. She offered him a hand, and he took it, surprised at the firmness of her handshake. She did not offer a name, and merely smiled at him.

“So this is what a Nobel Prize winner looks like,” she said, and he grinned.

“No, not really. Most of them are about as old as the tides. I’m probably one of the few who can still work up a good whiz in the middle of the night.”

She laughed at this, flashing very white and even teeth. Emboldened, he pressed on.

“The Nobel was meant to bankroll further research for the winners. I have no idea why they insist on giving it to people who are about to retire.”

“Isn’t it all just a big show anyway? A chance for the academic elite to pat each other on the back?”

“That about sums it up,” he responded. “Not that the money isn’t nice, mind you.”

“I’m sure.” She leaned in, and he turned his head as he brought his ear towards her lips.

“Do you actually enjoy these things? You must be bored out of your skull. Our provost is about as exciting as the Home and Garden channel.”

He laughed discreetly.

“You get used to it. Part of the package, I guess. They do pay well for an hour of pep talk. I’ll catch up on fun when I hit the bar back at my hotel in a little while.”

There, he thought. The bait is tossed out.

She took it, too, without a moment of hesitation.

“Where’d they put you up, the Motel Nine? Ours is a poor school, you know.”

“Hardly,” he said, admiring her ability to work the inquiry into an innocent comment without breaking stride.

“They paid for a nice room at the Regency. If it’s not the best place in town, it certainly comes close.”

There were more people waiting to get their face time with the celebrity, and she yielded her spot, shaking his hand again and patting his arm lightly with a slender and well-manicured hand.

“It was an honour to meet you, Mister Liebkind. Enjoy your stay at our lovely school.” She put just the faintest trace of sarcasm into the word lovely, and he smiled as he watched her stride away, a swan among chickens.

The college had hired a limousine with driver for him. On the way back, Will asked the driver to stop at a convenience store, where he bought a twenty-ounce bottle of Diet Coke. The driver watched with well-concealed amusement as Will dumped a quarter of the bottle onto asphalt of the parking lot. Then he topped off the bottle with the rest of the rum from his flask.

“Rough day?” the driver asked as Will sank back into the leather cushions of the Town Car’s back seat.

“No, not really. Just a long one. There an open container law in this state?”

“For soda? Hardly.” The driver chuckled. “Just don’t breathe in the cop’s face if we get pulled over.”

“Good enough.” Will smiled at the driver and leaned back, taking a long sip from his field-improvised rum & coke.

When they arrived at the hotel, his coke bottle was empty, so he tossed it into the garbage can at the door and went straight to the hotel bar. The Regency was nice, he supposed, but all the upscale hotels tended to look alike after a while. He had taken to rating them by the quality of their bars rather than the rooms, and in that category, this particular hotel did well indeed. They had an amazing variety of single malts at hand, and Will settled at the bar with a glass of Oban on the rocks. The bar was nearly empty on a Friday night, which suited him fine.

He was just finishing his first glass when Miss Third Row walked into the bar. She still wore the form-fitting beige pants and black sleeveless top she had worn back at the school. He watched as she stopped briefly at the door to scan the room. When she saw that he had already noticed her, she crossed the room and sat down on the bar stool next to his own.

“I was going to saunter in and check out the room before coming over, but there’s hardly anyone here,” she said. “Doesn’t leave much opportunity for subtlety.”

“No, I guess it doesn’t. Drink?”

“What are you having?”

He held up his glass. “Oban. Single malt scotch. May not be your thing.”

“I’ll try some.” She ordered one from the bartender before he could do it for her, and Will was relieved when her ID seemed to pass muster. She didn’t exactly look like jail bait, but age was a hard thing to guess these days.

She took a sip of her drink and made a little face before setting the glass onto a napkin.

“Not bad. I usually don’t do the hard stuff straight up, but this is kind of interesting.” She turned to face him and held out her hand.

“Once more, with a few less people around. I’m Laura.”

“Hi, Laura.” He took her hand and shook it once again. “I’m Will, as you know.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “It’s not like your face wasn’t plastered all over campus on those event flyers all week.”

“You’d be surprised how few people actually ever recognize me out in public. Suits me fine, though. Once they start putting Nobel laureates on Wheaties boxes, I’ll have something to worry about.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon,” she said.

“You’re probably right. Nobody ever asks me to endorse a pair of sneakers.”

She laughed at this, her finger lightly circling the rim of her lowball glass.

“I’d do it, too. In a heartbeat. ‘This is what I wear when I write’ and cha-ching, twenty million bucks appear in my account.”

“Yeah, well, not in this country,” she said. “We Americans are unrefined. I hear they treat writers like rock stars in Europe. Maybe you’re moving around in the wrong culture.”

Will shook his head.

“I like being able to buy my own groceries without a herd of photographers trying to get my bad side for National Enquirer.”

She looked around as if she half expected some tabloid hounds hiding nearby with cameras at the ready, and he could tell that she found the prospect exciting. Her complexion was flawless, either favorable genetics or very skilled application of expensive makeup.

“So, Laura,” he said. “What brings you here on a Friday night, having drinks with an old fart when you could be out clubbing or something?”

“You’re hardly an old fart,” she said, touching his arm. “You’re, what, thirty-five? That’s hardly ancient.”

“Thirty-seven, actually,” he replied. “That makes me, what, fifteen years older than you?”

She smiled demurely.

“I’m twenty-four, but thanks for the compliment. And I happen to like older guys. The ones my age are a bit immature.”

And not yet well-heeled, he thought.

“You’re a bit of an exotic rarity around here,” she continued. “I don’t often get to rub elbows with accomplished people, and I thought I’d take the chance while it presented itself.”

“I see.” Will took another sip from his glass, draining the rest of the scotch, and he signaled the bartender with the empty glass.

“What’s your major in school, Laura?”

“Business,” she replied without hesitation. “I actually sell cell phones at the mall when I’m not in school, if you can believe that.”

“Sure,” he said. “Hey, I’d buy from you just to see that lovely smile.”

She actually blushed, despite the lack of finesse in the compliment. It wasn’t his most skilled approach, but he was a little tired and slightly drunk, and he knew that she wasn’t here merely to sip a drink and walk off with an autograph. Moreover, she knew it as well.

“Yeah, well, it pays the bills until I graduate, and then I’ll start my own business.”

“Ambitious.” His new drink arrived, and he took the glass and sipped. “You’ll leave all those geeks in the dust in a few years, I’m sure.”

“Not ambitious enough,” she smirked. “When you were my age, you already had that medal, and a worldwide bestseller.”

He waved his hand in dismissal.

“When I was your age, my head was full of wool, and I wasn’t nearly mature enough for all the attention. That medal just fell into my lap, that’s all.”

“Well, you have it, and that’s something, right?” She hesitated briefly, and her eyes wandered to the coat hanging over the stool next to him.

“Can I see it?”

“Sure,” he said, and reached for the coat. He pulled the leather case out of the pocket and placed it on the bar in front of her. She picked it up gingerly and opened it. Then she took out the medal and bounced it a little on her open palm.

“It is heavy, isn’t it?”

“Solid gold. I guess the medal alone is worth a few thousand just for the material. Not that I’d try and pawn that thing, or anything.”

He watched as she inspected the medal, turning it around in her hand and running her fingers over the raised relief image on the front.

“What is that supposed to be?”

“It’s a guy under a tree, being visited by the muse.”

“I see.” She looked up at him. “And do artists need regular visits by a muse to keep having inspirations?”

“Of course,” he replied. “That’s part of the package. Didn’t you watch ‘Shakespeare in Love’?”

“Yeah, I did. Good movie, but in reality I think his main motivation was to make a buck. Or a sovereign, as the case may be.”

“Pounds and shillings. And yeah, that’s pretty much the universal motivator. No cure for writer’s block like an empty fridge and a stack of bills.”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” she smiled. “You need to impress me with the complexity of the creative process, so that I may become suitably impressed with your enigmatic and powerful intellect.”

Will laughed again. She was remarkably sharp for someone her age, and he found that he enjoyed this conversation far more than he had anticipated.

“You put your finger right on it, Laura. That’s right out of the Tortured and Misunderstood Artist playbook. Very good.”

“I dated a Visual Arts major once,” she said dryly. “Nothing can make up for the hours I’ve spent looking at his class projects and pretending that a plastic bag blowing across a playground was high art, just because he slapped an indie rock soundtrack over it.”

“Hell, try reading through hundreds of versions of some depressed kid’s bad attempt at the Great American Novel. Every time I stop somewhere for a lecture, I have some sweaty-handed Lit major hand me a manuscript.”

“Do you read them?”

“I used to,” he shrugged, “until I realized that there’s maybe one out of a thousand of these kids who actually has the talent to publish anything.”

“Don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “I won’t pester you about helping me get published or anything.”

“Okay. And I won’t play the unappreciated artist to try and get you into bed or anything.”

She smiled again, a lovely natural smile without pretense.

“Look, I don’t want you to think I’m a slut or anything, but if you invited me to your room, there’s a better than even chance that I’ll say yes.”

“Well, then.” Will returned her smile. “How would you like to grab a bottle of this overpriced Scotch and continue this conversation in more private surroundings?” He leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“My room has cable and an ice cube maker, you know.”

She laughed brightly.

“Oh, the possibilities.”

Laura could hold her liquor quite well. Up in Will’s suite, they went through another half bottle of Oban before he even noticed that she had started slurring her words. They watched a bit of late-night TV, trying to outdo each other with acerbic commentary, and before long, he leaned in and kissed her for the first time. She responded to his kiss readily, closing her eyes and putting her hand on the back of his neck. He drew out the kiss only long enough for their tongues to meet briefly. Always better to leave them wanting more than being bored with too much. She opened her eyes after he had pulled back, and smiled at him.

“That was nice. I wouldn’t mind some more of that.”

He obliged, and this time her tongue was more adventurous. Soon, they were locked in embrace, and when Jay Leno was finished with his monologue, they had peeled off each other’s shirts. He detached himself from her momentarily and leaned back a little to admire the lines of her bra-clad upper body. She was lean and athletic, with a body that was as flawless and well-maintained as her face. Will spent three mornings a week in the gym himself, just enough to keep a reasonably trim physique, and he knew a carefully sculpted body when he saw one. She had gone for toning instead of bulk, and he could imagine that the result of her efforts made every straight guy leer at her when she put in her sixty minutes on the elliptical machine every day.

“Like what you see?” she asked with a coy little smile, and he pulled her close and ran his hands over her back in response. She reached back and undid the clasp of her bra in a swift and well-practiced motion, and then his hands found even better employment on her front.

They coupled on the undisturbed comforter of the king-sized bed, with the TV running unwatched in the background. She was content with him on top of her, moving in a slow and steady rhythm, and he raised himself up on his elbows frequently to enjoy the sight of her smooth and defined curves underneath him. Her breasts were a bit on the small side, but they were firm and perfectly shaped. Her stomach was flat as a board, and the blond hair on her mound was neatly trimmed, undoubtedly maintained every day like a prestigious golf green. Will enjoyed the luxurious friction of her sex as he worked in and out of her in an ever-increasing rhythm, and near the end, she wrapped her legs around him and bucked her hips back at his own, responding to his thrusts in kind as they both neared their release. Eventually, he released his restraint and finished with a flurry of fast and hard thrusts, spilling himself inside her as he came with a groan.

Later, after she had cleaned up in the bathroom, she returned to the bed wearing only his shirt, unbuttoned, with the tails hanging down almost to her knees. She handed him a freshly poured glass of Scotch, with new ice cubes clinking in it, and he took it with a smile.

“Thank you. I’ll probably have a bear of a hangover in the morning, but what the hell.”

“Hey, if you can drink, you can suffer,” she said with a smile. “I actually don’t mind the hangover. It’s a good reminder that anything enjoyable in this world comes with a price attached. Sooner or later, you have to pay for the fun.”

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” he said.

“It’s the truth,” she said, sitting back down on the bed and crossing her legs underneath her, offering him a stimulating view. She took another sip from her own glass and studied the downtown skyline through the window behind Will. Her hair was messed up, but even the blond strands hanging into her face looked as if they had been carefully tugged into place by a skilled coiffeur.

“You should have been a philosophy major,” he said with a smile.

“I was,” she replied. “Double major, in fact. Philosophy and history. That was before I realized that philosophy majors usually wait tables or park cars for a living.”

Will laughed and shook his head.

“You’re wise beyond your years, Laura. College must bore you to tears. I doubt they can teach you anything you don’t already know.”

“Well, I still need the paper at the end, you know.”

“You’ll get it, and then you’ll go places and make fortunes, I have no doubt of that.”

“Why, thank you,” she said. “Coming from you, that’s an endorsement.” She chucked softly. “Imagine that, a Nobel prize winner telling me I am smart. Mom would be so proud. Maybe I’ll even tell her about this evening.”

“Minus the boffing part, no doubt.”

She laughed, flashing those perfect teeth again.

“You don’t know my mother. She’d be so proud that she’d probably tell all her buddies at the trailer park about it.”

They managed to finish the fifth of Oban, and have sex once more. This time, Laura elected to do the work, riding him at a slow and relaxed pace, and when they were finished, they both fell asleep on the comforter.

When Will woke up in the morning, the TV was still running, and Laura was gone. There were two glasses and an empty bottle of Scotch on his bedside table, and his hangover wasn’t quite as bad as he had expected it to be. He climbed out of bed and waited for the room to come to a rest before stumbling over to the bathroom. There were two used towels on the floor, evidence that Laura had showered before leaving. Will climbed into the still-damp shower, turned on the faucet, and stood under the hot water for a few minutes. When his head was reasonably clear again, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed the remaining bath towel from the rack.

He walked into the living area while he dried himself off. There was a hotel notepad placed in the middle of the writing table, and he could see that there was writing on the top sheet. A pen lay across it diagonally, and he lifted the notepad and shook the pen onto the tabletop.

I had a good time last night. Thanks for the company, and the expensive overpriced Scotch. Do look me up whenever you’re in town again.

-Laura

P.S.: I stole your shirt.

There was a phone number underneath her postscript, and he smiled as he folded the note carefully and put it back on the writing table.

Will chuckled as he looked around for the rest of his clothes. Everything else was there—his pants along with his wallet, and his sport coat with the leather case and the heavy gold medal inside. She had taken a modest souvenir, to be sure, but he had no doubt about who was a notch on whose headboard this morning.

Will smiled as he sat down in his bathrobe and picked up the phone to order some breakfast. He had to pick up the Yellow Pages to remind himself where he was: Asheville, North Carolina.

This place wasn’t so bad after all, he decided. Graduation time was only a few months away, and he resolved to ask his publicist for a booking or two in Asheville when the time came.

Chapter 2



“What do you mean, ‘I’m not coming?’ It’s Thanksgiving, Will. You’ve never missed Thanksgiving with us.”

His mother sounded positively indignant, as if he had proposed to cancel the holiday season altogether, but he was prepared to make his case.

“I am not interested if it’s at Bob’s place this year, mom. Why can’t we do it over at home just like every damn year? Bob doesn’t even have the space to put us all up for the night. I’m not sleeping on a camping mattress again, and the next hotel is a half hour from his house.”

“Oh, but he does have the space. They finally finished Erica’s new room over the garage, so they have an extra guest room now. I’m sure they’d let you have it. I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

Well, shit, Will thought. There goes my main argument.

“New room over the garage? Like a den? The girl is what, fourteen? She doesn’t need a den that’s separate from the rest of the house. Does he let her smoke weed and drive his truck, too?”

“She’s fifteen, Will. You’d remember that if you ever remembered to send birthday cards out like a well-mannered human being.”

“Mom, trying to give me a bad conscience won’t work.” But it did, and he knew that she had his concession in the bag once again. He sighed loudly.

“You don’t have to play the martyr and sleep on the couch in your own son’s home, mom. I’ll sleep on the damn couch.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stop pouting and come have a Thanksgiving with us just like every year? He is your brother, you know,” she added in a conciliatory tone.

“Yeah, I’ll come. Just don’t expect me to stay sober for very long once I am there.”

His mother chuckled.

“It’s the holidays, dear. Everybody gets drunk. It’s a law, I believe.”

Will hit the “End Call” button on his battered cell phone with a sigh. The last thing he felt like doing this week was to take advantage of Bob’s hospitality. His brother was so different from Will that not even the birth certificates had ever fully convinced him of a shared genetic lineage.

Will’s house stood in a quiet neighbourhood of the quiet town of Ellsworth, Maine. This was Main Street, USA, where people left their doors unlocked, and where nobody gave much of a rat’s ass about famous writers. This suited Will just fine. Ellsworth was just close enough to Boston and New York City to still have the convenience of proximity, and it was just far enough away from his mother’s house in Augusta to offer a convenient excuse for limited family visits. His brother Bob lived in Knoxville, Tennessee, which was the ass end of the world as far as Will was concerned. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered much if Bob lived in the house down the street. Will and Bob had avoided each other as much as possible since they moved out of their parents’ house, and that, too, suited Will just fine.

He walked into his study, past the travel bag in the hall that he had yet to unpack. His laptop sat on the desk, sleep light blinking softly. He sat down in his high-backed leather work chair and pulled himself close to the desk. There was a light layer of dust on the uncluttered work surface, and he wiped it away with the palm of his hand.

Will woke the laptop from its sleep and checked the Internet for airfares. Ten minutes later, he closed the web browser in disgust. The cheapest flight was close to seven hundred dollars, undoubtedly twice the rate it would have been outside of the holiday season. He had the money, to be sure, but he didn’t want to spend it on general principle, to avoid adding the insult of the expense to the injury of having to spend Thanksgiving at Bob’s house.

A lovely drive, then, he thought. It was roughly a thousand miles to Knoxville, and it would require a stay-over in Maryland or northern Virginia along the way. The drive would give him time to listen to a book or two, and he wouldn’t have to endure getting x-rayed and strip-searched by barely sentient primates in ill-fitting polyester uniforms.

Will looked at the laptop’s desktop, where a half dozen folders with different project names neatly hugged the right side of the screen, sorted alphabetically. He hadn’t looked at them in a few weeks, and his guilty conscience compelled him to open the most recent one. He had written four different attempts at a first chapter for a new story. They all stank to high heaven, but he loathed deleting even crummy work, so they remained on his hard drive. He opened the last version of his abortive first chapter, read through it, and closed the file again. He hadn’t worked on the story in at least a month, and it was as stale and smelly as old fish now.

Will closed the lid of the laptop, putting it back into sleep mode, and rationalized that it was pointless to start anything new right before leaving town for Thanksgiving anyway. Maybe the muse would strike on the drive to Tennessee, and he’d finally be able to actually finish something for a change.

He dumped the contents of the travel bag onto his bed, filled it up with some clean clothes from the closet, and put the toiletries bag on top of the fresh laundry. After a moment of contemplation, he went back into his study and unplugged the laptop, carrying it back into the bedroom and depositing it in the bag along with the wall charger. He had little motivation to get any actual work done this week, but at least he’d be able to surf the Web and play a round of chess or two at the motel along the way.

His car was a nearly new BMW 328i, subdued charcoal in colour. The regular royalty checks from his book made it possible for him to upgrade his vehicle every two years, a schedule he had been keeping consistently for the last decade. He tended to stick with the BMW because it wasn’t overly flashy, but luxurious, and not afflicted with the rich fuddy-duddy image of a Town Car or a large Benz. His New Year’s day ritual every year was to buy a new laptop, always the latest model laptop, and every other year, he stopped at the BMW dealership afterwards to trade his two-year-old ride in on a new vehicle. He never even wore down the first set of tires on any of his cars. This particular 328i was due to be traded in another month, and with the upcoming trip to Tennessee, it would have just under 20,000 miles on the odometer. His accountant hated the practice, muttering dark words under his breath whenever Will shrugged off his warnings about depreciation loss.

Will tossed his travel bag into the trunk, checked to make sure that he had his wallet and cell phone on him, and started up the car. He had topped off the tank when he got home from the airport yesterday, so there was no reason to even get off the highway until he reached his stopover point.

On the Interstate, he set the cruise control to a cop-safe speed, eight miles over the limit, and shifted his brain into autopilot mode once again.

Sixteen hours of driving time and an uneventful stay at a generic chain motel later, Will rolled into Knoxville. It was early afternoon on the day before Thanksgiving, and the highways leading south had been thick with holiday traffic. Will hated traffic on the best of days, and Thanksgiving seemed to bring out all the idiots who got their licenses in a Happy Meal, and who only took the Mercury Medicare out onto the Interstate for that one occasion every year.

Bob’s house was a bit off the beaten track, located on a cul-de-sac in a quiet North Knoxville neighbourhood. The houses were all mostly identical brick structures, a ready-made upper middle class neighbourhood that had been hammered out of the ground just a few years prior. Will loathed the generic architecture of these neighbourhoods. To him, they were the residential equivalent of the equally generic MacMall shopping centers that were sprouting up in every town now, all sporting the same combination of Starbucks, Olive Garden, and Pier One. He wasn’t surprised that in-car GPS systems were the hot new item these days; anyone living in one of these suburbs would need satellite navigation to find their way around among all the identical rows of housing.

Bob’s house looked mostly like the rest of the neighbourhood, but the addition above the garage his mother had mentioned gave the house a little bit of individuality. His brother’s truck was parked in the driveway just in front of the closed garage, a ten-year-old Dodge pickup with a fading dark blue paint job and rough spray-on liner in the bed. Will pulled his BMW into the driveway next to the Dodge and killed the engine, appraising the outside of the house. There was a small cluster of pansies in the flower bed right outside the door, and Will was surprised to see that some of them were still in bloom in late November. It was the South, he reminded himself, and this place probably didn’t see snow more than twice in a decade.

He snatched his travel bag out of the trunk and trotted up to the front door, where he ignored the doorbell and used the decorative brass knocker.

He heard swift footsteps inside, and he was pleased to see his niece answering the door. Erica had her mother’s long auburn hair, and her quiet and easygoing disposition. As far as Will could tell, Erica had inherited very little of Bob’s physical features or his temperament, and that would have made her his favourite niece even if she wasn’t the only grandchild in the family.

“Hi, Uncle Will,” she said, and stood on the toes of her running shoes to hug him and kiss him on the cheek. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad at all, except for all the morons trying to steer their cars with their butts while eating hamburgers and talking on their phones.”

She smiled at this, the trademark close-mouthed Erica smile with slightly pursed lips. She had taken to smiling with her mouth closed when she got braces, and the habit had remained even after the braces had come off earlier this year.

“Where’s your mom?”

“Went to the airport, to pick up grandma. Dad’s upstairs in his study. Want a drink?”

“Sure, if there’s any beer in the fridge that’s worth drinking. Why didn’t he go and pick up his own mother instead of sending your mom?”

She shrugged her shoulders in the noncommittal way exclusive to teenagers.

“No idea. Maybe mom had to make a run to the store anyway.”

He followed Erica into the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and studied the assortment of beer crammed into the top shelf. Will looked over her shoulder and shook his head.

“Cranberry fucking ale. Cranberries belong in a bog or in a sauce with a turkey, that’s it. There’s no place for them in beer.”

“If you say so. You know I have no hands-on knowledge of the matter, being underage and all.”

“Right,” Will said with a smile. “Your lips have never touched a bottle of beer, I’m sure.”

“I swear,” she said, maintaining an admirably steady deadpan expression.

“So I hear you have new digs.”

“Yeah.” Her face brightened momentarily. “I moved in last month. It’s right over the garage, and I have my own bathroom and fridge and all.”

“Festive,” Will smirked. “You can have all kinds of boys in there, and your folks would never even know it.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, and the smile faded from her face as quickly as it had come. “The boys at my school like bimbettes and cheerleaders. They don’t usually go for soccer players with four-point oh GPAs. Not that I am sad about that, mind you.”

“You’re wise beyond your years, Erica. In another ten years, you’ll be dating in your class, and the jocks at your high school will serve you French fries at the burger joint.”

“Like hell,” she said. “I’m planning on having a moving truck waiting at my graduation. This place sucks.”

“Where do you want to go to college?”

“Anywhere but here. In fact, I’ll pick the one that’s as far away from here as possible. University of Alaska, or something.”

“Like I said, wise beyond your years,” he smiled.

Will could hear the drumming of his brother’s computer keyboard even as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Bob liked the old IBM keyboards that clicked loudly when you pressed a key, and typing at sixty words a minute made a thunderous racket. Bob liked those old ugly beige monstrosities so much that he had gotten a half dozen used ones on the Internet, just so he could have plenty of spares for the next decade or two.

Bob was hunched over his keyboard, typing away at a steady pace without looking at his fingers, the light from the screen reflecting on his glasses. He was two inches shorter than Will, and fifty pounds heavier. Bob had also inherited the balding gene from his maternal grandfather, sporting an aggressively receding hairline where Will still had thick and plentiful hair. He looked up when Will stepped into the room, and ceased his frantic typing at once.

“Well, hello there, Will. You made it down here in one piece.”

“Yeah, barely. Too many morons out on the road for Turkey Day. How are things in the pulp factory?”

“Good, good.” Bob smiled, letting the jab go unacknowledged. “You know how it goes, there’s always a deadline around the corner. I could stay locked up here eight hours a day and seven days a week, and still not get everything off my plate.”

Will stepped over to the bookshelf that took up one entire side of the room. There were plenty of style manuals, the majority of the Writer’s Digest book club selections, and a whole row of shelving dedicated to Bob’s own books. None of them bore his actual name, of course. Bob had a pen name for each of the three genres he covered: bodice rippers, sex, and action-adventure pulp that mostly centered around impossibly hard to kill ex-commando troopers eradicating legions of terrorists in highly implausible scenarios.

“Yeah, the market cries out for more...” he looked at the spine of one of the action novels, “... Thorn McAllister novels.” He pulled the book out of the bookshelf and surveyed the cover art, which featured a heavily muscled guy with a pistol in each hand and no shirt to cover his impressive physique. “Geez, Bob, do you even bother looking at the galleys when they send them to you? Do they even bother with galleys?”

“Yes, they do,” Bob said with a sigh, “and no, I don’t look at them. You know why? Because I don’t give a shit what they do to the manuscript after I stuff it in the mailbox. Once I get that check, it’s their book, and they can rename the main character Zonko the Floppy-Shoed Clown for all I care.”

Will laughed at this, in spite of the grouchy mood that had settled on him since he had crossed the Maine state line on the way south, and Bob cracked a grin.

“Shit, stop dwelling on what a promiscuous publishing whore I am, and grab a beer and relax. It’s the holidays.”

“I would, Bob, but your fridge is stacked with nothing but that fruit-flavoured holiday goat piss.”

“Ah, have no fear,” Bob said. “I have tucked away a sixer or two of Guinness behind all that fruit-flavoured holiday goat piss.”

“Well, that’s something.” Will put the Thorn McAllister novel back in its spot on the bookshelf. “Let’s go and find some real beer, then.”

In the kitchen, Bob fished a bottle of Guinness out of the fridge and handed it to Will before opening the pop-top of one of the cranberry ale bottles for himself.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking that shit,” Will said, but clinked his bottle against Bob’s nonetheless.

“Hey, it’s seasonal. They only make it for Thanksgiving every year.”

“And thank God for that. You got a glass? Only barbarians drink Guinness out of the bottle.”

Bob turned around and reached into one of the overhead cupboards for a beer mug. He handed it to Will, who carefully but swiftly poured the contents of the bottle into it.

“Hey, you could have brought your own if you wanted to bring the joys of three-dollars-a-bottle Eurobrew to the unwashed masses,” Bob said. “Me, I’m fine with this holiday ale, thank you very much.”

There were car door slamming noises coming from the driveway, and Bob walked over to the kitchen window to peer outside.

“Wow, that was fast. Her flight only arrived a half hour ago.” He put his beer down on the kitchen counter and wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans.

“Erica, come and help your grandma with her bags, if you would.” He paused briefly to wait for a response from the depths of the house, and made a face when he didn’t receive one.

“I need put in an intercom or something. That den has a bit too much insulation in the walls.”

“She’s probably just pretending she can’t hear,” Will grinned.

They went outside, where Kate Liebkind was already huffing towards the house with two bags in her hands, with Bob’s wife Christa bringing up the rear with two more bags.

“Mom,” Will chided as he intercepted her to take the two bags out of her hands. “Do you always have to pack half the house for a two-day trip?”

“Hi, honey.” She kissed him on the cheek as she handed over her luggage. “I’m staying for a week, so yes, I needed half the house.”

“Hi, Will,” Christa said, and he stopped with his load to let her give him a brief hug and a kiss. “Glad you could make it.”

Christa was slender and short, topping five feet only in shoes with heels, and despite their otherwise similar features, Erica had outgrown her mother by the age of twelve.

They filed through the front door, and Will followed his mother into the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. This had been Erica’s room until recently. Now it was redecorated in inoffensive eggshell and pastel colours, although Will could still see where Bob had neglected to fill in all the holes caused by the pins and nails needed to keep Erica’s posters and prints on the walls. The futon with the black bedspread was gone, replaced by a twin-sized mattress on a generic box spring and frame.

“Please don’t tell me we’re doing Christmas in Tennessee, too,” Will said, not caring that Bob had walked in behind them, loaded with the two suitcases he had taken from Christa.

“Jeez, mom, what’d you bring—a few spare car batteries?” Bob said with a puff, setting the two suitcases onto the floor.

He flexed his hands and wiggled his fingers.

“Don’t worry, Grumpus McScrooge,” he said to Will. “We’re coming to Maine as always. I booked the tickets in August already.”

Erica skipped into the room, red hair trailing behind her like an auburn waterfall, and hugged her grandmother fiercely.

“Hello, honey. It’s so good to see you. Gosh, you’ve grown another inch or two since the Fourth of July.”

“That’s what happens when you feed them, mom,” Bob said. “Would you believe she wants to eat two, three times a week?”

“Oh, dad,” Erica groaned. “You’re so funny.”

Bob looked at Will and smirked. “Just wait until allowance time. Then she’ll laugh at my jokes like I’m Chevy freakin’ Chase.”

They all settled in the living room after all the travel bags were squared away. Will and Bob stuck with their respective beers, while Kate and Christa poured themselves some white wine. Will walked into the kitchen to get a fresh bottle when they were filling their glasses, and he shuddered to see that the wine came in a nondescript five-liter cardboard box with a pouring spout.

Erica walked up behind him and poked the small of his back lightly.

“Hey, Uncle Will, do you want to come up and see my new room?”

“Sure. As long as I don’t have to climb through hatches or up some rickety fold-out ladder.”

“Don’t worry. Dad put in a real staircase.”

He followed Erica down the hallway and through the door into the garage. There was an actual wooden staircase at the back of the garage wall, and it even had a full-height guardrail affixed to it. Erica led the way up the stairs, and she opened the door at the top with a flourish.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude,” she intoned solemnly.

Will smiled as he followed her into the room. It smelled of new wood, fresh paint, and some sort of autumn potpourri. There were shelves lining the walls on two sides, evenly loaded with books and knickknacks. A large closet formed the back wall of the room, and the front wall had two large half-round windows facing out onto the street. The wall with the windows in it was severely slanted to accommodate the curvature of the garage roof on that side. It gave the room a slightly crammed feeling in Will’s opinion, but overall the had to concede that Bob had made the most out of the limited space above the two-car garage. It was certainly twice as big as Erica’s old room. The colour scheme was a friendly light blue, and he saw that Bob had even splurged for brand new furniture in matching colour tones.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I like it,” Will said. “It’s cozy. It’s very you.”

“You think so?” she beamed, and he smiled back at her.

“Yeah, I do. And it looks like you finally have space for all your stuff. Hey, and your own computer desk, too.”

He walked over to the niche between bed and window, where a computer desk and a cloth-covered office chair formed a small work corner.

“Yeah, dad finally got me my own computer, but it’s a bit slow. He got it for like a hundred and fifty bucks.”

Will bent down in front of the computer desk to examine the charcoal-coloured minitower sitting on the work surface, a tired-looking mismatched monitor beside it. It was an older model, and from the inventory sticker on its side, it looked like a former corporate machine. The software license key on the case was for an operating system that hadn’t been in the retail channel for at least seven years.

“This thing is ancient. Where’d he get it, Goodwill?”

“There’s a used computer store over by the big mall. I wanted a laptop, so I can take it to the library and stuff, but Dad said the room was expensive enough, and that I don’t ‘need’ a laptop.” She made little quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

“Oh, did he now?” Will sat down in front of Erica’s computer and wiggled the mouse to deactivate the screen saver. He clicked around for a few moments, confirming that the machine was moving at the speed of frozen molasses. The hard drive emitted a tired-sounding whining noise that spoke of many years of continuous service. It was an adequate machine for playing solitaire or typing up term papers, but it lacked the horsepower for anything else.

“So your dad doesn’t want you to have a laptop, huh?”

He got up from the chair, pushed it against the table, and wormed his way back out of the little work corner.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

He left Erica’s room, went back down the stairs, and looked for his travel bag. It was still in the spot where he had left it, in the corner of the hallway next to the kitchen door, and he unzipped it and took out his laptop along with its power supply.

Erica’s eyes grew wide when he returned to her room, and he dropped the laptop on her computer table with a grin.

“Here you go. Merry early Christmas.”

“No way. You’re giving that to me?” She hurried over to her desk and sat down, opening the lid of the laptop with quick and eager hands.

“Wow, a laptop. We have Macs at school—I love those.” She looked up at him with an expression that was a mix of excitement and uncertainty.

“Uncle Will, this thing is brand new. You can’t just give that to me for Christmas.”

“No, you’re right. It’s not for Christmas. Call it a belated birthday gift, and I hope it makes up for the fact that I forgot to send a card again this year.”

“Oh, awesome. Thank you so much.” Erica jumped up from her chair and hugged Will tightly. He laughed and patted her on the back.

“You’re welcome, kiddo. Happy belated birthday.”

If Bob was bugged by Will’s gift to Erica, he didn’t let it show. The family clustered around her when she showed off her laptop, perching it on her crossed legs as she sat on the couch, and everyone made appreciative comments.

“That was very generous of you,” his mother said to him later in the kitchen, when he had gone for a new beer to find her refilling her wine glass.

“Ah, it was nothing,” he replied, uncomfortable with the praise. “I was going to buy a new one in January anyway, just like every year.”

“Well, you could have traded it in, couldn’t you?”

“Not really,” he laughed. “It doesn’t work like it does with cars, mom. You gotta sell ‘em, for pennies on the dollar. A one-year-old computer sells for maybe half what it cost you new, if you’re lucky.”

“Still, that’s a lot of money to give away. Don’t play the gruff and cranky writer all the time, Will. Deep down inside, you’re just a big teddy bear.”

She patted his cheek, and he drew his face away from her hand with a grimace, but then he stooped down and gave her a brief hug.

“Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone, mom. You’ll ruin my hard-earned reputation.”

Later that evening, when Christa and Kate were getting increasingly giggly on the couch, and Erica had excused herself to the privacy of her new domain, Will made himself a glass of bourbon & ginger with Bob’s Wild Turkey, and stepped out of the house to enjoy the mild November evening. He had barely settled on the front steps when Bob came out of the house and sat beside him without a comment, clutching a new bottle of his abominable holiday ale.

They sat for a while, observing the quiet neighbourhood and the few cars passing through the cul-de-sac, quietly sipping their respective drinks.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Bob finally asked into the silence.

“Sure thing.”

“Did you give Erica that laptop because she told you I wouldn’t let her buy one?”

Will grinned and took another sip of his drink before answering, his gaze still fixed on the way-too-early holiday lights gracing the windows of the house across the street.

“Maybe just a little, Bob. Mainly, I wanted to make her happy. The girl is so appreciative when you do something nice for her.”

Bob smiled and shook his head, turning the beer bottle in his hands and picking at the label.

“You know, I just can’t figure you out sometimes. You forget her birthday almost every year, but whenever you’re here, you dote on her like she was your own. I see you smile around her more than you do around anyone else.”

“That’s not true. You should see the smile I give my mailman when he drops the royalty checks from the publishing house.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bob said, flicking a piece of label onto the concrete of the front steps. “You say you don’t want kids, but you’d make a pretty decent dad, you know?”

Will snorted and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. Then he stood up and wiped the bottom of his pants with one hand.

“Like hell, Bob. Guys like me are not cut out for all the crap that comes with being a parent. I just stop by every now and then to have the fun without the work.” He checked his watch as he walked back towards the front door.

“Oh, yeah. Happy Thanksgiving, I guess. It’s midnight. I’m off to bed.”

“Good night, Will.” Bob remained on the front step, taking another swig from his bottle without turning around. “Maybe we can spend the day tomorrow without taking potshots at each other, like a real family.”

Will chuckled as he stepped back into the house.

“That’s what real families do, Bob. It’s the abnormal ones that don’t pick on each other.” He paused for a moment, looking at his brother’s broad back, clad in checkered flannel.

“You have a good night, too.”

Chapter 3



On Thanksgiving morning, disaster struck before Will was even fully dressed.

He had slept until eight o’clock, successfully ignoring the noises of increasing foot traffic in the house. When he was finally unable to sleep through the rising sounds of activity in the kitchen, he got up and gathered his toiletries bag. There was a guest bathroom, thankfully, so he didn’t have to trek all the way upstairs only to be afforded the possibility to see his brother in boxers and bare-chested—or perhaps worse.

Will took his time in the shower. The semi-wet towel on the drying rack told him that his mother had made use of the facilities quite a while ago. Bob and Christa had the upstairs to themselves, and Erica had her own bathroom right underneath the staircase to her den.

He was back in the living room, getting dressed out of his travel bag, when he heard his mother utter a loud curse in the kitchen. Kate Liebkind cursed only under extreme duress, so he finished pulling his woollen turtleneck over his head and straightened it out as he walked toward the kitchen, still barefooted.

“What’s the matter, mom?”

Kate shot her son a harried look as he entered the kitchen, and he could smell the source of her dismay as soon as he walked in.

“Oh, I don’t know. This oven is messed up, I think.”

“I’d say you’re right.” Will could feel the heat radiate from the oven door, and there was a distinct smell of charred poultry emanating from behind it.

“I turned the bird on right after I got up an hour ago. It needs to cook for a while, you know. I think the temperature dial is broken. It’s way too hot.”

Will opened the oven door, and a bloom of heat rose up to meet his face, accompanied by some black smoke. He recoiled and held his hand out in front of his face.

“Jeez. That thing’s a frickin’ fusion reactor.”

He peeked into the oven cavity, where the skin of the turkey had turned the colour of charcoal.

“What did you set the heat to? Five hundred and fifty? I didn’t even realize ovens could get that hot.”

“No, I had it set to three twenty-five. See?” His mother pointed to the dial on the oven console, which was still set at 325 degrees.

“So you did.” Will closed the oven door again and turned the temperature dial back to “off”.

“Well, we won’t be eating that bird. The oven’s busted. Let it cool down, and then we’ll give the carcass a decent burial in the trash.”

“Oh, that’s just fabulous,” Kate said, throwing her hands up. “What am I going to make for Thanksgiving with a broken oven?”

“Something you can cook on the top burners, probably.”

The bird took a while to cool down to non-nuclear temperatures, and when Kate retrieved the turkey from the oven cavity with a moan, it had the texture and appearance of a charcoal briquette. Will opened the kitchen window to get rid of the acrid smell that now filled the room.

“Figures,” he said to his mother. “The one year we deviate from the routine and do Thanksgiving at Bob’s, his oven blows a gasket.”

“Whose oven is blowing a gasket? I don’t think ovens have gaskets anywhere,” Bob said as he peeked around the doorframe behind them. “Phew, it stinks in here. Something burning?”

“Your oven has blown a gasket, dear brother. And it’s a figure of speech. It means that we won’t be having turkey today.”

Bob stepped into the kitchen, waving his hand in front of his face to banish the stench of the charred bird. He bent down to inspect the carcass and sighed.

“Well, shit. I was hoping that stupid thing would hold together for another six months or so.” He looked up at his mother, whose expression had gone from harried to sour.

“You know, mom, we don’t precisely have to have turkey today.”

Kate threw her hands in the air in an exaggerated gesture of resignation.

“What do you suggest instead, Bob? Are you just going to run out and get White Castle burgers for everyone?”

Will laughed at this, but Bob just smiled, unflappable as always. Can nothing wipe that smile off your face? Will thought.

“We don’t have White Castle down here, mom. They’re called Krystal burgers in the South.”

“Whatever they’re called, it looks like we’ll need a few, because we certainly won’t be having our turkey today. And it was such a nice turkey.” Kate looked down at the ruined bird and scowled.

“Ah, don’t worry, mom. We’ll just go out for dinner. Less dishes to do, eh?” Bob opened the fridge, pulled out an orange juice carton, and opened the spout before bringing it to his mouth.

“Can you not get a glass for that?” Kate reached out to intercept the juice carton before the spout reached Bob’s mouth, but he turned away from her and took a long sip. Then he folded the spout down again.

“My house, my juice, my rules, mom.”

Will looked at Kate with a smirk. We could have had our holiday up in Maine, mom, that smirk said, and Kate’s barely concealed exasperation was evidence that his message got across clear enough.

“Fine. Infect everyone with your germs, then.” She snatched a pair of oven mitts from the hooks above the oven and bent down to administer last rites to the destroyed bird.

“Hang on, mom.” Will took the oven mitts out of her hands and pulled them on before grabbing the basting pan and carrying the whole mess over to the trash.

“Don’t dump it in the trash can, Will. That won’t fit in there.” Bob reached underneath the sink and pulled out an oversized brown trash bag.

“Put it in here, will ya?”

Will obliged, dumping the bird into the bag.

“Oof. That sucker weighs twenty pounds at least.”

“Twenty-three without the stuffing,” Bob said, tying off the top of the trash bag.

“Well, so much for that,” Kate said. She looked at Bob with an imploring look on her face.

“Please tell me you don’t really plan to get us a bag of hamburgers for Thanksgiving?”

“Hell, no,” Bob laughed. “I figure we can go out to eat for a change. How do you all feel about a Chinese Thanksgiving?”

Will laughed again when he saw the momentary expression of relief on Kate’s face being swiftly replaced by one of abject horror.

It turned out that Bob wasn’t joking at all. On Thanksgiving, most decent restaurants in town were either closed or booked to the seams, and the only chance for a table for five on short notice lay in the out-of-the-way ethnic places that didn’t have a bite of traditional festive fare on the menu. Kate put up a spirited protest, but relented in the end when Bob proposed take-home food or frozen supermarket pizzas as alternative fare.

“I swear, mom, this Chinese place is the best in East Tennessee,” Bob assured. “It gets voted top buffet in Knoxville every year.”

“Well, that’s certainly a seal of quality,” Will remarked, his mood lifted by the fact that it was Bob who contributed to his mother’s dismay on this particular holiday. A proletarian Thanksgiving, he thought with a chuckle. General Tso’s Chicken and Won Ton soup. Maybe they’ll put little ruffles on the drumsticks today.

In the end, even Will had to admit that the place was pretty decent after all. The Peking Garden had a multitude of private rooms, and they managed to secure a cozy little one that had more than enough space for the five of them. Erica delighted in the unconventional holiday dinner, of course. (“I hate turkey and stuffing anyway,” she had confided to Will in the car, her happiness to be out of the house manifesting in some actual open-mouthed grins.) They had come over in three cars, since Bob’s truck only held two people even without the junk piled into the passenger side space, and Erica had chosen to ride with Will in the BMW.

The Peking Garden had the typical quarter mile of buffet, but they also served good Chinese fare a la carte, which served to put Kate back into a fair mood. The server told them that the ducks were, to his regret, only available with a half-day notice to allow for preparation. Will excused himself to the bathroom, slipped the waiter a fifty, and forty minutes and two rounds of drinks later, they had a freshly prepared duck on their table. The bird was a fair Chinese imitation of Duck a l’orange, and it was far better than any of the turkey Will had eaten in recent memory.

“See, mom?” Bob said to Kate after they had finished their first round of duck and oriental vegetables. “And we won’t even have to clean up afterwards.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Christa looked at her husband with amusement. “You guys have never cleaned so much as a fork after the holiday meals. We finish eating, and you two disappear into the living room like clockwork, two minutes after dessert.”

“That is so totally not the case,” Bob protested. “Besides, I carve that bird up into leftovers and toss out the carcass afterwards, and that takes a bunch longer than doing the dishes.”

“Yeah, and the house elves come and stuff it, and baste it every twenty minutes for six hours,” Kate remarked dryly, and Erica laughed out loud.

“Owned, dad.”

“What the hell does that mean, ‘owned’?” Bob turned to Will and shook his head. “I swear, you live with her under the same roof for fifteen years, and one day you wake up and realize that you speak almost completely different languages.”

“It’s ‘Netspeak, Bob. It means ‘to beat somebody so thoroughly as to inflict humiliation.’”

“Ah,” Bob said. “You would know, of course. You get to hang out with the college crowd.”

“Yeah, and what a joy that is. Almost as much fun as yanking your own nose hairs.” Will took another long sip from his glass.

When they were finished with the duck, there was not much left for a doggy bag. Even Erica, who usually ate like a third-grader, helped herself to seconds and thirds, and all five of them went to the buffet to pick up dessert.

Will was busy loading up his dessert plate with a sampler of the multitude of pastries when Erica dropped her tongs and nudged him lightly.

“Oh, my God. Uncle Will? That’s my English teacher over there.”

Will followed her gaze and saw a tall and thin woman in her late Fifties picking through the selections at the other end of the long row of buffet tables. She wore a plain and understated dark blue skirt and a matching jacket, and everything about her shouted “professor” to Will.

“Well, isn’t that special. I guess she has no family to bug her on Thanksgiving. Do you like her?”

“Yeah, she’s nice. Strict, but good.” Erica’s eyes sparkled. “Hey, you know what would be cool? If you came over with me and said ‘hi’. She’d totally flip. You’d be the talk of the teacher lounge for the next week. She loves your book, you know.”

“Does she now?” Will smiled. “Well, let’s go and say hello, then.”

They walked over to where Erica’s teacher was picking through the broccoli beef. The woman glanced sideways when they stepped next to her, and a smile spread across her face when she saw Erica.

“Well, hello there,” she said. “I’ve never seen you in here, my dear. I didn’t realize you liked Chinese.”

“Hi, Mrs. Yarmouth,” Erica replied. “We had an emergency. Our oven destroyed our turkey, so dad took us here.”

Mrs. Yarmouth looked past Erica and smiled at Will in a noncommittally polite fashion, and he returned the smile as he put his hands on Erica’s shoulders. Then he saw the familiar spark of recognition in her eyes, and she put her hands in front of her mouth in surprise even before Erica turned to introduce him.

“Mrs. Yarmouth, you’ve not met my uncle yet, have you?”

Will stretched out a hand. “Will Liebkind. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Erica says you’re a great teacher. ‘Strict, but good’ were her words, I believe.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Yarmouth took his hand and shook it carefully, as if she was afraid to damage him. “Marilyn Yarmouth. It is an honour to meet you, Mister Liebkind. Such an honour.”

“The honour is all mine, ma’am. So how’s my niece measuring up in English? Sullying the family name?”

Mrs. Yarmouth laughed brightly.

“No, not at all. She’s a very smart student. A little lazy sometimes, maybe, but she does very well as long as someone keeps pushing her.” She lowered her voice. “You know, freshman English is really not very much of a challenge for her. I have to give her extra assignments to keep her interested.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Will smiled. “Maybe she’ll even go to a college that doesn’t have the words ‘clown’ or ‘beauty’ in front of it.”

Erica had heard the joke before—one of Will’s college circuit standbys—but Mrs. Yarmouth looked scandalized for just a moment. Then she chuckled, and smiled at Erica in a fashion that almost seemed parental to Will.

“No, I predict that she’ll be able to pick her scholarship once she graduates high school.”

“Oh, whatever.” Erica rolled her eyes and smirked, but it was a good natured smirk. “Maybe I’ll just get my GED and toss flapjacks at the Waffle House for a living.”

“You most certainly will not, my dear, unless you want me to stop by every day to harass you about wasting your potential.”

“She was totally star-struck,” Erica said when they walked back to the private room, dessert plates in hand. “That was awesome. She’ll be talking about you for the entire next English class, I’m sure.”

“Doesn’t that bug you? I mean, do all the teachers know whose niece you are?”

“I only told Mrs. Yarmouth and the principal, Mrs. McGowan, but I guess word gets around in the teacher’s lounge or something. Most of them know about you.”

“Get any special treatment?” Will grinned, and Erica stuck her tongue out in reply.

“I wish. All I got out of it was my English teacher expecting me to crank out top grades. Thanks a bunch.”

“Ungrateful brat,” Will smiled.

“Hey, I did not ask for you to get that Nobel thingie, you know.”

“That may have something to do with the fact that you were about three when they gave it to me. As I recall, back then you didn’t ask for much other than cookies, juice, and mommy.”

“I’m still mostly happy with cookies, juice, and mommy,” she observed dryly, and Will laughed.

After dinner, they all assembled outside. The restaurant was part of a well-kept little strip mall on a busy road. Will and Kate marvelled at the number of cars in the parking lot, far more than seemed reasonable even for a full restaurant, when Bob noticed that much of the foot traffic went in and out of a large store next to the Peking Garden.

“Oh, sweet. Outdoor Adventures is still open.”

Will examined the store in question. It was a hunting and hiking goods store, the mannequins behind the glass front clad in various hues of orange and camouflage. A large banner above the entrance proclaimed “GOING OUT OF BUISNESS—GIANT THANKSGIVING SALE”, and Will chuckled.

“Buisness?”

“Hey, you don’t have to know how to spell ‘waterfowl’ to be able to shoot it,” Bob grinned. “I think I’ll sneak a peek. Maybe they have a good deal on an over-and-under. I need something better for skeet than the pump I’ve been using.”

“Have at it,” Will said. “I think I’ll pass on the pleasure.”

“Suit yourself,” Bob said as he strode towards the store entrance. “You coming, mom? Christa?”

“I think I’ll head back to the house,” Christa said amicably, and Kate moved to join her daughter-in-law.

“I’m right behind you guys,” Will said. “I’m just going to stretch my legs out here for a second.” And have a few minutes to myself, he left unsaid.

“You should check out the bookstore at the end over there,” Erica said to Will, pointing with a slender hand. “They have tons of used books, stuff that’s really hard to find.”

“I’m sure they’re not open on a Thanksgiving afternoon,” Will replied.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen them closed. I think the people who run it sleep there or something.”

“I’ll check it out,” Will said. “You going with your mom and grandma?”

“Yeah, I want to get back to my new computer.”

“Better hurry, then. They’re about to drive off.”

“Oh, crap. Wait, mom!”

He watched in amusement as Erica scurried across the parking lot, wildly waving her arms to get her mother’s attention, auburn tresses bouncing with every step. She was still an awkward teenager, but it was already obvious that Erica was turning into a stunning young woman. He was glad that she took after her maternal line. The Liebkind women of his dad’s line had been German peasant stock, broad-faced and stoutly built, but Kate was of far more graceful Nordic ancestry.

The bookstore was at the end of the strip mall, a small sliver of storefront with two narrow windows on each side of the door that were neatly packed with books. Will looked at the display offerings for a few moments, and he was pleased to see that most of the books in the windows were a decent literary sampler, refreshingly devoid of John Grisham novels or photo books about the local college football team. He opened the door and stepped into the store, and the smell of used books hit his nose at once.

The store was narrow, with only three main aisles of books, but the owner had made the best of the space. There were books displayed face-out on wooden pegs at the ends of each aisle, and neatly labeled storage bins underneath. There was a short counter with a register by the left wall near the door, but nobody was sitting behind it at the moment. Will walked into the right aisle, doing his usual efficient scan of the book spines as he slowly paced down the row of shelves.

Each aisle was sorted thematically, and he skipped past the history and romance sections until he reached the one labeled “Modern Literature”. Will suspected that every single published author in the business checked for their own books in any bookstore they visited, and he was no exception. The literature section was organized alphabetically, and he found his own name after a brief search. The store had a half dozen copies of both hardcover and paperback editions, and he pulled one of the paperbacks off the shelf.

The Crow’s Lament, the title said. His own name was printed below, in slightly smaller letters, and the widely spaced print underneath it said “NOBEL PRIZE WINNING AUTHOR”. Will leafed through the paperback, looking at his own words staring back him.

‘The Pretentious Turd’, I should have titled it, he thought. It had taken him the better part of a year to write Crow’s Lament, the first draft dashed out in numerous caffeine-fuelled sessions at the alternative and oh-so-hip coffee shop near campus. Back then, laptops had been far out of his financial reach, so he had written the first draft in longhand, on a stack of spiral-bound notebooks. Every weekend, he had used one of the Macintoshes in the university computer lab to transcribe the work of the week into a WordPerfect document. He still owned the original stack of notebooks; they resided in a sturdy document box in his closet. His fingers still hurt in memory of his cramped marathon writing sessions whenever he opened the box and looked at the pile of notebooks, their blue covers now faded to a greyish hue at the corners.

Will closed the paperback and tucked it neatly back into its spot on the shelf. Some of the copies on the shelf looked like he had cashed the royalty checks for them about a decade ago already, but there were two hardcovers and one paperback that looked brand new, their spines pristine and their corners crisp.

College kids, he thought with a smirk. Bought the book for a class and then dropped the course after the first day. He was familiar with the practice, as he too had sold a fair amount of books back to his own college bookstore in unopened condition.

His books were in the A-L section of modern authors, and the Ls were at the very end of the aisle. Will turned the corner to check out the next aisle when he heard a tapping sound in the corner of the room. He turned back and saw a display table in the corner, neatly buttressed against the end of the bookshelf. Underneath the table was a dog, resting on a folded blanket, and the tapping was caused by the dog’s tail on the carpet.

“Hey there, buddy,” Will said, and lowered himself to sit on his heels. The frequency of the taps increased as he did so, and he figured it was safe enough to stretch out a hand and offer it to the dog to inspect. It was a red dachshund, a large standard-sized one, not one of those overbred and bug eyed minis that people toted around in their handbags.

The dachshund sniffed Will’s hand and nudged it approvingly, and Will laughed as he reached out to scratch the dog behind the ears.

“You’re a friendly guy, aren’t you?”

“He’s the bookstore dog,” a female voice behind him said, and Will turned around.

“Aren’t bookstores supposed to have a cat?”

“Pshaw. Every used bookstore has a cat. I figured I ought to set myself apart. Besides, I’m a dog person.”

“Me, too.” Will remained in his half-crouched position, continuing to scratch the dachsie’s ear. “What’s his name?”

“Oliver.” The woman set the armload of books she had been carrying onto the table above the dachshund’s head, and crouched down next to Will. She reached out and scratched the other side of the dog’s head, and the dachshund let out a satisfied grunt at this preponderance of affection.

“You’re spoiled rotten, Oliver,” Will smiled.

“Say, ‘Of course I am, that’s what I’m here for,’” the woman said in affectionate doggy talk, and then leaned in to kiss the dog on the nose. Then she stood up, and Will raised himself from his crouch.

She was short, maybe five five at most, and a complete knockout. Will had a firm idea of what constituted attractiveness, and this woman hit the bullseye dead center as far as he was concerned. She had long dark hair tied back into a ponytail, hazel eyes, and an adorable little pug nose over invitingly full lips. As she righted herself, she brushed a strand of that dark hair out of her face and smiled at him.

“I think Oliver here is the first dachshund I’ve seen in the last few years that’s not named ‘Oscar’,” he said. “How did you come up with his name?”

“I got him at the pound. He looked at me with those brown eyes, and I immediately thought of Oliver Twist. You know, ‘please, sir, I would...’”

“... like some more,” Will finished with her, and they both laughed.

“Yeah, there’s no worse name for a dachshund. I hate it when they call him ‘wiener dog’. ‘Hey, lookit that thar wiener dog,’” she mimed in a perfect imitation of a redneck drawl, and the sudden contrast to her normal speech made Will realize that she had no trace of a regional accent.

“You don’t sound much like a local,” he said.

“Born and bred in New Hampshire. You sound like you’re from up north as well.”

“Well spotted. Born and bred in Maine. It looks like we’re both a long way from home down here.”

“Not really,” she shrugged. “I’ve lived here for long enough that I ought to call this place home by now, I suppose.”

“Is this your store?”

“Yes, it is.” She straightened herself as she looked around, and he could tell the sudden infusion of ownership pride in her features. The place was small enough to cross in a half dozen strides, but it was her domain. She stretched out her hand.

“I’m Claire.”

“Hi, Claire. I’m Will.” He took the offered hand and shook it. “So what brought you down from the Live Free or Die state to lovely Tennessee?”

“Oh, it’s a long and sordid story. Let’s just say it was a family thing.”

He took the brief and subtle clouding of her expression as a hint to drop that particular line of approach.

“This is a nice little store, Claire. I almost missed it, but my niece pointed me your way. How come you’re open on Thanksgiving, instead of taking the day off like everybody else?”

“Are you kidding? I get a ton of business from holiday refugees every year. Turkey day, Christmas, the Fourth, and so on.” She made a face. “Besides, I hate turkey anyway.”

“That makes two of us. Thank the gods my sister-in-law’s oven gave up the ghost today. I wasn’t too excited about going Chinese on Thanksgiving, either, but that place down at the other end of the mall is pretty good.”

“Ah, the Peking Garden. Yes, I am familiar with their fine products. It’s the only place in walking range that has edible stuff for lunch, if you don’t count Mickey D’s as edible.”

The muted little cowbell on the door jingled, and Claire looked around him to check out the new arrival. He hoped it was nobody she knew so she wouldn’t be distracted from their conversation.

“Hey, Libby. Did you finish ‘Empire Falls’ yet?”

Will turned around to look at Libby who turned out to be a flower skirted woman of about fifty with a braid that reached down to the small of her back.

“Hi, Claire, honey. Yes, I did, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why they thought that book was worth a Pulitzer. It’s just so meandering.”

Claire laughed, a clear and bubbly laughter that sounded very charming to Will.

“Yes, I always thought his writing needed a bit of trimming.”

The woman Libby smiled at him in a noncommittally courteous way, and he smiled back. Then Libby’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and he knew that she was the kind of bookworm who studied author photographs on dust jackets.

“Oh. My. Lord.” She covered her mouth just like Mrs. Yarmouth had done, and Claire gave her a puzzled look.

“What? See a ghost or something?”

Libby ignored Claire and approached Will with hesitation, and he smiled at her as she came forward, one hand on her mouth and the other on her chest.

“Are you who I think you are?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. “Tell me who you think I am, and I’ll tell you if you’re correct.”

He grinned when he saw the genuine puzzlement on Claire’s face. For once, he was glad to run into a reader who actually recognized him. Libby finally noticed Claire’s expression as well.

“I don’t know what kind of strings you pulled to get this man into your store, but this is sensational.” She offered her hand to Will, who shook it with a jovial smile.

“I never thought I’d actually shake hands with you,” Libby said, and let out a nervous giggle that contributed to Claire’s confusion all the more.

“I pulled what now? Is there something I’m not getting here?” Claire looked from Libby to Will. “There must be something I’m not getting here.”

Libby laughed when she realized that Claire’s ignorance was not feigned.

“Oh, you literature maven. This is William Liebkind. You know, Nobel Prize for Literature?”

“I go by Will, really,” he said, suppressing chuckle at the sudden shock replacing the confusion in Claire’s expression.

“This is a joke, right? Are you playing freakin’ jokes on me on Thanksgiving, Libby? I swear, I’ll...”

“Oh, you silly goose.”

Libby shouldered her way past Claire and walked over to the shelf where Will had seen his own books. She was well familiar with the inventory; it took her a mere five seconds to locate a copy of the hardcover edition and pull it from the shelf. She turned around, walked back to Claire, and held the book out, with the back cover opened to reveal the author picture on the rear dust cover flap.

“Not one of the greatest pictures anyone’s taken of me,” he said.

Claire took the book from Libby, looked at the picture, and then shifted her gaze to Will.

“Well, paint me green and call me Gumby.”

She closed the book with a clap and gave Will a sheepish smile. Libby grinned and clapped her hands, bouncing in place like an excited Jack Russell terrier.

“It looks like I may be the only bookstore owner east of the Mississippi who doesn’t recognize a Nobel Prize-winning author when he walks into her store,” Claire said, and Will and Libby both laughed.

“Oh, hardly,” he said. “It’s not like writers are rock stars. One time I did a book signing at one of those humongous trendy stores, and the manager handed me a job application when I walked in and asked for him.”

Claire laughed, obviously relieved that he wasn’t offended by her failure to recognize him.

“Oh, this is so cool,” Libby said, fishing her cell phone out of her purse. “I have to call my friend and tell her about this. She won’t believe me in a million years.”

“You got a camera on that thing? I’m sure Claire here can take a picture of the both of us. That way you have undeniable photographic proof.”

“Oh, would you? That would be wonderful!”

He didn’t think that Libby could get any more excited, but somehow she managed to get twice as bouncy as before.

“I have a digital camera behind the counter,” Claire said. “Hang on, I’ll go and get it.”

Will only barely managed to not look at Claire’s jeans-clad posterior as she walked off to get the camera, mindful of Libby’s star-struck gaze on him.

“Wow,” Libby said. “This is only the coolest thing to happen in this place all year. Nobody ever comes to Knoxville. Well, at least nobody who’s anybody in the field of literature.”

“Not big on books, your fellow Knox—what is it, Knoxvillians?”

“Knoxvillians,” she confirmed with a grin. “And no, they’re not big on books. Football and religion, yes. Books, not so much.”

Claire returned with the camera, a bulky old thing that had a slot for ancient floppy disks on its side. Will had done such photo ops a thousand times, and he amiably put an arm around Libby’s shoulder and smiled into the camera while Claire took a few shots.

“That’ll be something to show those stuck-up book club girls at Barnes & Noble,” Libby said, beaming into the lens.

“Alrighty,” Claire declared, and shut off the camera. “That should give you a few good shots for sure.”

“Hang on there, missy,” Libby said. She reached for the camera and pulled Claire forward gently.

“We need one or two of you with Mr. Liebkind, for the corkboard behind the register. Don’t you want to show people that you’ve had a genuine Nobel prize winner in your little bookstore?”

Claire gave Will an apologetic look, and he smiled at her as she handed the camera to Libby. She stepped next to him, and he put his arm around her and flashed his best publicity shot smile at Libby behind the ancient camera. After a brief moment, she put her arm around him as well. She exuded a pleasant fragrance that was a mixture of subtle perfume and hair conditioner. They stood together like this for a few moments while Libby snapped a few shots, waiting for the camera to laboriously and noisily write the picture to the floppy after every shot.

“There, that’s it. Looks like the disk is full.”

Claire detached herself from Will and took the camera from Libby.

“Yep, twelve shots is all you get out of this thing before the disk runs out of space. I guess there will be one or two good pictures out of the dozen.” She looked at Will and smiled. “Thank you so much for indulging us. This must be terribly amusing to someone like you—two small town book club girls getting all excited over the famous writer.”

“That’s okay,” Will replied, returning her smile in what he hoped was a non-stuck-up fashion. “I’m quite flattered, actually. I feel a bit like a rock star now.”

“Yeah, about that,” Libby said. “Would you mind signing a copy of your book for me?”

They spent the next thirty minutes chatting about books, and Will regaled the two women with tales from the publishing world. He found himself studying Claire’s face when she talked. She had an adorable smile, and he tried hard to remember the funniest tales from Publishing Row just to keep seeing that smile.

After a while, even star-struck Libby had realized that the conversation had essentially become a dialogue between Will and Claire, and she excused herself, accepting a hug from Will before running off to continue her errands. Will saw her pull the cell phone from her purse the minute the store door closed behind her. He knew there was nobody in her circle of friends who wouldn’t know of his presence in Knoxville within the next hour. Nobody else had entered the store while they had their chat, and now Will and Claire were once again alone with Oliver, who had resumed his afternoon nap below the table in the corner.

Claire followed his glance out of the window, where Libby was now leaving their field of vision as she walked past the last window on the left side of the store, talking into her cell phone in a highly animated fashion.

“Libby’s nice, but she never stops in for less than a half hour. Sometimes I have to just about push her out of the door with a box full of books if I want to get any work done.”

“Am I keeping you from working?” Will asked.

“Oh, no. Not at all.” She gestured around the store in a vague manner. “As you can tell, I’m not doing a terrific amount of business today. Although I suspect we’ll see a whole lot of people coming through that door if you stick around for another twenty minutes. I think Libby is calling the entire book club right now.”

He cringed at the thought of an army of book club ladies flooding into the place, and Claire laughed when she saw the momentary expression of pain on his face.

“Well, I guess I ought to go and rejoin the rest of the family for the customary after-dinner ritual of getting drunk and cussing at each other.”

“You have family here in Knoxville?”

“Yeah, my little brother lives here,” he shrugged. “For some reason, my mother allowed herself to get talked into doing Thanksgiving a thousand miles from home.”

“Well, you have a nice remaining Thanksgiving, Will. Thanks for stopping by my crummy little store, and for posing for pictures. You’ll be the talk of the place for a few weeks, I promise.”

“You have a nice rest of the day, too,” Will said, and took her offered hand. They shook briefly, and he suppressed the urge to give her a hug like he had done with Libby. “And this store is not crummy at all. Trust me, I’ve been to enough crummy ones to know.”

She laughed and brushed her hair out of her forehead with the palm of her hand.

“You’re a liar, but it’s a nice lie. Thanks for the compliment. Stop by again anytime.”

On the way back to the car, Will took note of the store’s name again, and he memorized the white number stenciled above the door. The Lost Savant, number 16384, he repeated to himself. Now to figure out the name of this road.

There was a road sign across the intersection when he pulled out of the strip mall parking lot, and he quickly pulled his little notebook from the pocket of his sport coat and clicked his pen open on the armrest of the BMW. He jotted down the name and address of the bookstore and stowed the notebook back in his pocket, satisfied.

“Where on earth have you been?” Bob asked him as he walked through the door fifteen minutes later. “We figured you got lost or something. It’s been an hour.”

“Yeah, well, I was shopping for books,” Will said with a smile, and he thought he saw Bob’s eyebrow rise ever so slightly. “Hey, do you have a copy of the Yellow Pages?”

“Sure thing.” Bob turned and walked into the kitchen, where he reached into the bookshelf that held all of Christa’s cookbooks. He pulled a battered copy of the Yellow Pages from the bottom shelf and tossed it to Will.

“Something catch your eye while you were shopping?”

“Yeah,” Will said as he retreated to the living room, replying over his shoulder. “I guess you can say that.”

“So you’re not packing up and leaving tonight, I take it?”

“Hate to disappoint you, Bob, but I think I might stick around for a little while longer. Now, would you mind stopping the interrogation, and directing me to your bourbon supply, please?”

That was a preview of A Bettered Life. To read the rest purchase the book.

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