She cannot believe she got into the Iowa program. What were the chances? The last time she looked, their acceptance rate was in the single digits. Did Lance Gray’s recommendation help her? He was on the faculty there at one point, and he told her those years ago at that conference in Vermont that she had potential. He didn’t seem at all surprised when she emailed him, and he said he remembered her poem. How could he have? But he did.
And now she’s going. A full fellowship, too. A marvelous opportunity with the best faculty. Will she be able to do this? Compete with young, eager writers in their twenties? She thinks she can. She has so much raw stuff these days, and a new honesty she never felt before. Classes start next week. She is nervous and exhilarated. She keeps her eyes on the road, then thinks of something else she can write. She hears the words come together. Something about grief and hope—how they are two vines of the same—no, not vines. They are, they are what? She thinks about the right words, and she is startled by his voice.
“Want me to drive?” Greg asks, sitting up next to her. His hair has somewhat grown into a buzz cut, and a new mustache sprouted that he didn’t want to shave.
“I’m fine, Tom Selleck,” she says, and smiles. The gray shirt he wears says All I Care About Is Fishing, a present Addie got for him for Father’s Day because he promised her fishing lessons at Lake Macbride in Iowa.
He wipes the side of his face and groans. “I slept like a bear in a cave,” he says. “How we doing?”
“Breezing through Indiana. Next stop: Illinois.” She offers her coffee to him, and he sits up and takes it. He sips, and she sees the line of muscle on his arm, the way his throat moves when he drinks, and she is stunned by this man sitting so close to her. She wants to pull the car over and kiss him. Every day she is still shocked by the gift of him.
“I like you driving,” he says. “I might just sit back and let you get us all the way there.”
“I think I’ve got at least another two hours until my head falls off,” she says. She looks at the road, the yellow dashes, the steady gray. “Go back to sleep if you want.”
He nods, and turns over, and in a few minutes she hears the sound of him snoring, her husband who battled for his life—and won. His arms crossed in front of him, his long legs stretched. His chest rising and falling. This is still real, she thinks. Nothing, nothing, has happened.
Acknowledgments
To Rebecca, who I met in third grade when we were paired up to write about our summer plans. I don’t know who I would be without you, and I couldn’t ask for a better partner. Our long walks have kept me sane, and you believed I could do this when I didn’t. I love you, and I love our life. Little did I know thirty-five years ago that you were the summer I was hoping for.
To my daughters, Gia and Frankie. Thank you for teaching me everything I never learned. Our talks, our playing, our little and big traditions. I am so, so proud to be your dad.
To my parents and siblings and cousin June, who all loved me and let me be sensitive and odd. Thank you for the books and the laughing and the Tenenbaum lifestyle. To my wife’s family, who I love like my own, who always had a place at the table for me.
Thank you to everyone in the Rehoboth Beach Writers’ Guild: the exact group I needed when I was a tired teacher with young kids who just wanted to write more. The readings and classes and community of writers have been everything.
To Maribeth Fischer, novelist and friend, who made the guild what it is and always encouraged me. Thank you for your early reads of this book and sound character advice. You have taught me so much, and I am a better writer because of you.
To Gail Comorat, my poetry workshop co-teacher and one of my best friends. I am so glad I met you, and I love that we share poems and share a brain. Also to Irene Fick, Sherri Wright, Ellen Collins, the email group that shares writing, commiserates over rejection, and celebrates acceptances.
To Walter Cummins, who taught me so much about writing and teaching and generosity.
So much gratitude to Madeleine Milburn, my agent, who is worlds too good for me. I cannot tell you how lucky I feel to have you by my side. You saw what I always hoped someone would see in my writing, and you cared so much about my characters. To everyone at the Madeleine Milburn agency, especially Rachel Yeoh, who was an early reader and is always so kind and helpful. Also to Fiona Mitchell, for her early valuable reading.
To Kara Watson, who is as skilled and insightful as any editor could be. Thank you for acquiring this and for helping me tell these characters’ stories so eloquently. Your checkmarks are nourishment. Thanks to Sabrina Pyun for the early read and excellent suggestions. To Nan Graham, Mia O’Neill, Ashley Gilliam, Jaya Miceli, Katie Rizzo, and everyone else at Scribner: how is this even true? I used to look up at the Simon & Schuster building whenever I visited the city, and I wished then for exactly this. Thank you will never be enough.