The Life List (40 page)

A gust of wind knocks the breath from me when I open the door. From the back courtyard, I hear the clashing of Mother’s wind chimes. Craning my neck, I peer out at an empty porch. My hair flies in every direction and I harness it in my fist. Where did he go? Slashing rain stings my face like little zaps of electricity and I squint into the downpour. Finally, I edge back into the house. Just as I go to close the door, I see him. He’s crossing the street under a big, black umbrella.

“Herbert!”

He wheels around. He’s wearing his Burberry coat, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers. My hand flies to my mouth and I step outside, into the fury of the tempest. Through the pelting downpour, I see his beautiful smile.

Without wasting a second, I race down the porch steps. The rain drowns my silk blouse, but I don’t care.

He runs toward me, laughing. When we meet, he lifts his umbrella to shelter me, pulling me in so close I can see a fresh knick from shaving on his chin.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Garrett Taylor smiles and holds out the weatherworn flowers to me. “I canceled my plans. I didn’t postpone them. I didn’t take a rain check. I canceled them. Permanently.”

My heart dances and I bury my nose in a bright orange poppy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes. I did.” He gazes down at me and gently tucks a lock of wet hair behind my ear. “I refuse to let another meeting pass us by. I couldn’t wait one more day, or one more hour or minute,
without telling you that I’ve missed you, the funny teacher I laughed with and got to know on the telephone. I need to tell you now, while I have the chance, that I had a huge crush on that beautiful girl I saw on the El, and at the apartment building, and on the jogging path.”

He smiles and grazes his thumb across my cheek. “So you see, when I met you today, and the two of you merged, I had to come here tonight.” His voice is husky, and he locks his gaze on mine. “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of one day waking up, and finding that my train had pulled out of the station, and the woman of my dreams was left standing on the platform, waving good-bye.”

I step into his arms and it feels like I’m returning to a place I’ve been missing my whole life. “It was you I was hoping to catch,” I whisper against his chest. “Not that train.”

He draws back and lifts my chin with his index finger, then lowers his head and kisses me, long and slow and teasingly delicious.

“Consider me caught,” he says, smiling down at me.

With one hand clutching the flowers and the other holding Garrett’s, we climb the steps to my mom’s house huddled beneath his black umbrella.

As I go to close the door behind us, I look up at the sky. A crack of lightning cuts a swath through the murky heavens. If my mother were here, she’d pat my hand and tell me there would be another sky.

I’d tell her I like this one, storm clouds and all.

EPILOGUE

I
stand at my dresser mirror, in the very room my mother once I stand at my dresser mirror, in the very room my mother once called hers. It’s different now, with pieces of my new life scattered about, but still it smells of her, and her memory greets me each time I enter. Funny how places become people, how this house and her old iron bed still pull me in and offer comfort when I need it. But unlike those forlorn days nearly two years ago, my need for comfort is rare now.

I fasten the clasp of my pearl necklace. From the nursery down the hall—my old bedroom—I hear my daughter screech with laughter. I smile and check my face one last time. Suddenly, in the mirror’s reflection, my life appears. I spin around and the gates of heaven swing open.

“Who’s got my big girl?” I ask Austin.

“Dada,” she says, looking delicious in her ruffled party dress and polka-dot headband.

Garrett kisses her cheek and points to me. “Look at Mommy’s pretty white dress. Isn’t she beautiful?”

She giggles and buries her face in his neck. Smart baby. I’d nuzzle that neck, too, clean-shaven and tan, set against a crisp white shirt and black suit.

He reaches out his hand to me. “Today’s the day. Are you nervous?”

“Not at all. Just excited.”

“Same here.” He bends down and his lips graze my ear. “Nobody deserves to be as happy as I am. Nobody.”

My body erupts in gooseflesh.

We’re nearly to the car when I realize I’ve forgotten the programs for the ceremony. While Garrett secures Austin into her car seat, I run back inside.

The house is quiet now, none of Austin’s prattle or Garrett’s hearty laughter. I find the pamphlets on the coffee table, just where I’d left them. As I turn to leave, I notice my mother’s photo. Her eyes twinkle, as if she’s pleased with what I’m about to do. And I think she would be.

“Wish me luck, Mom,” I whisper.

I lift a pink program from atop the stack and place it beside her picture.

S
UNDAY
,
THE
S
EVENTH OF
A
UGUST

O
NE O
’
CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

R
IBBON
C
UTTING
C
EREMONY

S
ANQUITA
H
OUSE

749 U
LYSSES
A
VENUE

C
HICAGO
’
S
N
EWEST
S
HELTER FOR
W
OMEN

WITH
C
HILDREN

I close the door behind me and dash to the car, where my fortune awaits—the
heart-stopping, I’d die for you
loves of my life, my husband and our baby girl.

For my parents, Frank and Joan Nelson

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

N
ever before have the words “thank you” felt so inadequate. But until someone coins a better phrase, the simple platitude must suffice.

Thank you to my extraordinary agent, Jenny Bent, for taking a chance on an unknown writer from the Midwest and making her dreams come true. My praise to Nicole Steen for keeping track of the business side of things. Many thanks to Carrie Hannigan and Andrea Barzvi, who also believed in
The Life List
. A huge debt of gratitude to Brandy Rivers of The Gersh Agency, along with a multitude of foreign rights agents and editors, for taking this novel to places I never imagined.

My deepest appreciation and admiration to my fantastic editor, Shauna Summers, her uber-efficient assistant, Sarah Murphy, and the entire team at the Random House Publishing Group. Their expertise is surpassed only by their kindess.

Special thanks to my first reader, my dear mother, who left me
such an enthusiastic voice mail after reading the book that I refused to erase it for six months. My eternal gratitude to my dad, whose unwavering pride and steadfast belief gave me the courage to persevere. To my early and most avid reader, my aunt Jackie Moyer, for her top-notch feedback and advice.

Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends.” This book embodies the spirit of my friends, and I’m especially grateful to those who offered to read my manuscript long before I was an “author.” To my wonderful friend and fellow writer, Amy Bailey-Olle, who always knew the exact word or phrase to make the story better. To my fabulous friends Sherri Bryans Baker and Cindy Weatherby Tousignaut, for making me feel like I might actually have something with this book. To my dear friend and the wildly talented author, Kelly O’Connor McNees, for her generous feedback, guidance, and inspiration along this wonderful journey. To the very special Pat Coscia, whose enthusiasm was unparalleled. To Lee Vernasco, at ninety-two my oldest reader—and the most spirited. What an inspiration you are! To the lovely Nancy Schertzing, for offering up her bright and beautiful daughters as readers. Claire and Catherine, your editorial notes were some of the best I received. Thank you.

A shout-out to the gals at Salon Meridian: Joni, Carleana, and Megan in particular, for passing around the manuscript and making me feel like a writer. To Michelle Burnett, for telling Bill she had to rush home from work to continue reading my story. Love that! To the magnificent Erin Brown, whose editorial service was the best investment I ever made. To the extraordinary writing instructors in my life, Linda Peckham and Dennis Hinrichsen, without whom there would be no novel. Thank you to my writer’s group, Lee Reeves and Steve Rall, whose talent far exceeds mine. And a wink to the heavens for our late member, Ed Noonan, who would have enjoyed this moment. Special thanks to Maureen
Dillon and Kathy Marble, who patiently educated me on caring for a preemie and life in the NICU.

I offer my deepest gratitude to my wonderful husband, Bill. Your pride and love and support make my heart sing. This journey would mean nothing without you.

My humble thanks to the gods and goddesses, angels and saints for answering my prayers, and to each and every person who has ever shown interest in my writing. I’d list you here, but I’m afraid I’d leave someone out. You know who you are, and I love you for it. And I thank you, my dear reader, for allowing me into your life, whether for a day or a week or a month. I’m honored to share my words and world with you.

Finally, this book belongs to every girl and woman who sees the word “dream” and thinks verb, not noun.

The Life List
A NOVEL

Lori Nelson Spielman

A Reader’s Guide

A Conversation Between Lori Nelson Spielman and Meg Waite Clayton

Meg Waite Clayton is the nationally bestselling author of
The Four Ms. Bradwells, The Wednesday Sisters
, and
The Language of Light
, all national book club picks. Her latest novel,
The Wednesday Daughters
, is available now from Ballantine Books.

Meg Waite Clayton:
Can you tell us a little about what sparked the idea for
The Life List
?

Lori Nelson Spielman:
One day I came across an old cedar box, and tucked inside was the life list I’d written over thirty years ago. Many of the goals could be checked off. I’d made my high school cheerleading squad. I’d graduated from college and learned to ski and traveled to Europe. I had a good marriage … I even had a cat. But I didn’t live on a lake. I hadn’t designed my own home. I didn’t have two kids, or a horse, or a dog. As I read the list, I thought about how different my life would be if I’d fulfilled every goal my fourteen-year-old self longed for. I love stories where someone dies and leaves a message to their loved one, like
P.S. I Love You
by Cecelia Ahern or
Message in a Bottle
by Nicholas Sparks. So what if someone died, and left an old life list for their loved one to complete?