“I’m sorry. You go meet your professor. I’m going to find a table in the back to study. It was great to meet you.” I started to walk away.
“I’ve still got a few minutes.” He turned in the aisle. “Look here—mysteries. Do you read mysteries?”
I smiled. “A few.” I ran my fingers along the books, tapping some of my favorites. I stopped at Perry, traveled to Peters, and landed on Powell. “And here you are.”
“I am. They’ve got a good selection.”
I pulled out a book and grabbed a pen from my bag. “You need to sign some. Can you imagine how thrilled people will be to see your signature?”
“That’s called vandalism,” he quipped, but I could tell he was intrigued.
“Only ifIsign your name. Ifyoudo, it’s called winning a golden ticket.”
“Fine.”
We picked out a few of his books and he signed them—real notes too. In a copy ofSalvation Boundhe wrote:Enjoy my favorite passage on p. 187. It really happened. All the best, Alex Powell.
I flipped to page 187 and started reading from the top. It’s a defining moment for Cole. A break in his father’s murder investigation rocks him to his core, and we find him inside a church, bereft and questioning everything he’s done and is. A pastor approaches from behind and asks to join him. Cole nods to the pew, but continues to look forward, uncommunicative and sullen.
The pastor sat for a few moments, then turned to Cole. “You’re going to be okay. Trust your heart.”
Cole turned, angry at the intrusion, angry with himself. “What?”
“You have to stop questioning and fighting so much.”
“Who are you? You know nothing about me.”
“I don’t need to.”
“But you’re giving advice, or worse, assurances?”
“I must be right or it wouldn’t anger you so much.”
“Go away.” Cole turned forward, unwilling to give the intruder his time or energy.
“I will, but listen to your heart. That’s where He speaks.”
The pastor leaves the pew and Cole sits there, stunned. I knew that was the scene Alex meant. He had revealed himself and some conflict that had impacted him deeply. I looked up at him; my eyes asked,What happened?
“My father wasn’t murdered in a police-mob conspiracy, but yes, at a very dark time, a young pastor took me on. Just like this. He’s now one of my best friends. He got a kick out of being in my book.”
“Can you tell me more?” I sensed that this was fragile ground.
“Maybe another time.” His crooked, sad smile ended the probing.
He grabbed another book,Three Days Found, and lightened the mood.Enjoy the story,he wrote.It’s my favorite. And if you’re in NY, eat at Patsy’s and bring this. They’ll love it. The description starts on p. 206. Joyfully, Alex Powell.
“Patsy’s?”
“It’s the most amazing Italian restaurant in New York. It was Frank Sinatra’s favorite place and still has that authentic Rat Pack vibe. The food’s amazing and the portions will feed a starving writer or fuel a marathon runner.”
“Which are you?”
“I’m occasionally hungry as both, but I’ve never run a marathon. A few friends like to go there each year before New York.”
“I’d love to run New York someday.”
“You should. They say it’s the best. The crowds are amazing, and you run through all five boroughs.”
