Kirk?â
âKirk.â
â Ennhhh. Wrong answer. Opera or ballet?â
âBaseball,â I say. âMets or Yankees?
âYankees. Thai or Indian?â
âMexican,â I say.
âDing ding ding!â
Weâre about halfway to New York, and Elenaâs driving. Iâm just a passenger, zipping along toward God knows what fateâbut then, so are you. You may think you know whatâs going to happen in my story or your own, but the truth is you donât have a clue. Youâre right here with me, off the map. Here, for all you know, there be dragons.
âParis or Rome?â I ask.
âHavenât been to either.â
âSo which one would you like to see first?â
Elena shoots me a look. I donât know her well enough yet to read it, though I know her a whole lot better after last night. Sorry to disappoint you, but Iâm skipping the love scene, or should I say scenes. Suffice it to say the first one was a tearjerker, and the three that followed would have had to be severely edited to make NC-17.
âWhat did you say to George on the porch?â she asks, surprising me. I didnât think sheâd been paying attention to us.
âThat would be the veraaandah. And you havenât answered my question.â
âYou first.â
I shrug, smile. âI just wished him luck, is all.â
Elena isnât fooled, but she lets it go for now. âRome,â she says.
EXT. GEORGEâS VERANDAH - DAY
Elena and CATHERINE, 45, are hugging and saying tearful good-byes in Spanish. Michael and GEORGE, 50ish, are standing off to one side.
GEORGE
Thank you for coming, Michael.
MICHAEL
You canât imagine how much I didnât want to, but Iâm glad I did.
They shake hands. Michael considers George, wrestling with something, and comes to a decision.
MICHAEL (CONTâD)
Thereâs something I want to say to you, George, and youâre not going to believe me and you might even be pissed at me for saying it. But you need to hear it and I need to say it, so here goes. You donât know that Shane was the love of your life.
George looks affronted and starts to speak, but Michael plows ahead.
MICHAEL (CONTâD)
You canât know that he was the love of your life, and do you know why? Because guess what, you arenât dead yet. You may feel dead right now, and believe me Iâve been there, but the fact is, until youâre lying under a tombstone of your own you canât be sure about anything. You could prick your finger on one of your roses tomorrow, and as youâre climbing the stairs to get a Band-Aid you trip over one of the pugs and tumble to your death. Or you could meet a man in the checkout line at the grocery store--hell, you could meet a woman even, and fall madly in love with her and end up with six kids and twenty grandkids.
Michael looks over at Elena, then back at George.
MICHAEL (CONTâD)
You just donât know, George. Thatâs the thing. None of us does.
He reaches out and rests his hand for a moment on Georgeâs shoulder, then lets it fall.
INT. MICHAELâS CAR - DAY
Elena and Michael driving down the highway with the top down. Sheâs behind the wheel, and sheâs got her head thrown back, LAUGHING at something he just said. She stops, and he cocks his head.
MICHAEL
Do you hear that?
ELENA
What?
Faintly at first, and then gradually louder, we hear a womanâs LAUGH: artless, weightless, utterly abandoned. A bright, rippling arpeggio from the most joyful aria ever sung. Michael smiles.
MICHAEL
Nothing.
The LAUGHTER continues as the car heads off into the unknown.
FADE OUT.
Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2012 by Hillary Jordan.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all
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