Reunion Beach Elin Hilderbrand (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📖

wondering, too, if you’ve heard from Cassandra? She was always a toughie, even though she was born in a peppermint wrapper—but I know things are not easy for her on that side, and I’m wondering if you know something? Well, I’ll just wait to hear from you.

Love ya, Pat

To: DBF

From: PC

I still haven’t heard from you, Dot. I see your world changing from summer to fall, but you’re not in it. This can only mean one thing. Something went wrong with the facelift. That’s a joke. You must have been sick. I wanted to explain a couple of things to you before you get here. You may have wondered about the postcards. You may be curious how I got through to you.

You know those wet squares of paper you see on the sidewalk, the ones where the words are blurry from the rain? That’s a postcard from me. The book you pick up off the shelf and there’s a paragraph underlined, something about Anacondas in the wild? That, too, is me. The receipt you saved from a store you don’t remember going into that has a note scrawled on the backside that says soft shell crabs? That’s also me. I won’t leave them around for you any longer. You must be en route on your new journey. I am here as it unrolls before you in whatever form it takes. Trust you are not alone. Take it from someone who has settled into his knowingness as you are about to settle into yours.

There’s a dive bar in heaven called Halo where writers go. You’d think that it was called Halo in honor of the angels that fly overhead in flocks of such congestion that it reminds some of us souls of the old flight pattern over La Guardia Airport. Actually, the bar was named by Somerset Maugham, who frequented the joint and would say Hello (Halo in his British accent) to the new arrivals.

The name stuck even after Somerset moved on to another realm. I’ve already spent a chunk of my initial eternity in the bar. I’m comfortable enough to remain here awhile longer until I figure out my next step. Besides, it’s such an interesting collection of souls, I find the clientele irresistible. All the questions that had dogged me for my entire working life have been answered one by one in the ebb and flow of the conversation as souls come and go. I have met my idols, most of them, and a few authors I liked in passing back on earth, I have learned to love full out and let go of all prejudices and judgments I might have had against our fellow writers. I have learned to expand my thoughts and open myself up to ideas I refused to entertain in your realm. To that end, I am embracing poetry. I am holding out to meet the poets, because I’ve always admired them.

Poets don’t live on advances, nor do their poetry collections sell as briskly as a hot novel might. I’ve learned that I have a deep admiration and affection for those who created art for art’s sake. Wasn’t that the point of creativity? To insist, despite all obstacles, to proceed with the words, evocative and emotional, despite impediments? To write the poem knowing it may never be read? To hide the poems in the wall knowing they will never be found, but feeling that sense of fulfillment from writing it anyhow?

I’m hoping to chat with Emily Dickinson. There’s a rumor that Emily will eventually show her soul, but so far she hasn’t made it to Halo. The bartender keeps Miss Dickinson’s favorite blackberry brandy on the shelf just in case. Even though you will never receive this postcard, I will sign off and wait for you.

Love ya, Pat

Pat put down his pen. He tore the final postcard he had written to Dottie on earth in two, and then into little bits and pieces. He threw the confetti into the air. The tiny bits of paper dissipated like a vapor.

“Pat Conroy!” Dorothea Benton Frank stood in the entrance of the bar. “There you are!”

“Dottie?” Pat got off the bar stool and turned to face his friend. “Dottie, is that you?”

“Hell, yes. I’ve not entirely evaporated. Can you see my pearls through the ectoplasm?”

Pat squints. “Just barely, but, yes. What are you doing here? I saw you in a hospital.”

“Well, I wasn’t there for a facelift, you old coot. I got sick. I got worse and then I got a feeling that I should leave the hospital and find you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. I just did it. I was compelled. You know I don’t make long-range plans. Takes the starch out of life.”

“So, you knew you’d end up here?’

“Of course not. I had no plan to die. I’m one of those lovers of life. Couldn’t get enough of it. I had so much going on. The kids. Peter. My grandson Teddy. Another grandbaby on the way. Don’t make me talk about it. Well, maybe I should. I’m not sad when I talk about it. Why is that?”

Pat nods.

“You’ll have to do better than that, old friend. You can’t just nod like one of those bobbleheads.”

“I’m acknowledging that you’ve arrived, that you were there and now you are here. You can do a lot of good for them from this side. When you’re at peace, you see everything differently.”

“Isn’t it true? I feel great. What a year. And work, too. You won’t believe it. Queen Bee went to number two.”

“Get out.”

“No, I mean it. Number two. Two as in second place, also known as the booby prize at the white elephant sale. Two as in the second, you know, the second twin, less pretty but still in the family and allowed to join the rest of the good lookers at the dinner table despite her homely self. I’m glad to leave all that behind. Number two, Pat. Second place. I’m like friggin’ Avis,