Christmas in Bethel

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I find nothing good in goodbyes. Romanticized as it is, my heart still hurts.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

On Saturday, Lee had an evening book signing in Boston at the Brattle Theatre for the Harvard Bookstore—an independent bookstore with an impressive history of attracting well-known and often controversial authors, including John Updike, Salman Rushdie, Al Gore, and Stephen King.

With holiday traffic, the drive took us more than two hours, so we were rushed to pre-sign the books that were sold with the tickets. Carlie was there to meet us at the door. I hadn’t seen her since dinner at Keens in New York, and she seemed uncomfortable. Maybe I was imagining it, but it seemed like she carried an air of defeat. At least that’s how it felt.

Carlie and I flapped the books for Lee as he quickly signed them, and they were reboxed for distribution by the bookstore staff.

The format of the event was an onstage discussion with an interviewer, Dr. Barry James, a Harvard literature professor who was fixated on discussing the impact of the over-commercialization of literature and what he called the “Oprah effect” on the reading public.

I sat alone, secluded in the wings of the stage, hidden from the audience, but with a direct eyeline with Lee. During the presentation he kept looking at me and winking.

The crowd loved him, and the discussion concluded with a lengthy standing ovation. It all felt a little surreal. After spending so much intimate time alone with him I had allowed myself to conveniently forget that he was still a public figure—someone I had to share with the rest of the world.

After the event, Lee, Carlie, and I had dinner at Legal Seafood in Boston, then Lee and I drove back to the Cape. We had taken his Mercedes sedan, which dampened the noise of the road. We didn’t talk much on the way. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I had a lot on my mind. Finally, Lee said, “You’re quiet tonight.”

“Sorry. I’m just thinking about you leaving tomorrow. I hate it.”

“It’s going to be hard leaving you.”

“I wish I were going with you.”

“If it wasn’t such a hard stretch, I’d bring you. What did you think of the event?”

“Everyone loved you. As usual. It was good to see Carlie.”

He glanced over. “Was it?”

“Not really.”

He grinned. “She seemed a little subdued.”

“She was acting like a whipped puppy.”

He laughed. “Yeah. She was.”

More silence.

“Are you going to be okay cleaning out your rental by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself,” I said. “You hired people. And Frankie’s coming over to help.”

“You’re driving your car back?”

“It will be cheaper than storing it. And we won’t need a moving truck. I don’t really have that much to bring back. Besides that, I get nervous driving your Mustang. I feel like I’m driving a museum piece.”

“It’s not that expensive.”

“It’s not just a collector’s car, it was your father’s.”

“True. A father I never knew.” He glanced over his shoulder, then changed lanes. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

“Miss you.”

He smiled. “It’s a nice kind of pain.”

I reclined the seat and closed my eyes. “What’s so nice about it?”

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

“Sounds like something a writer would say.”