Tell Me a Story Read online

  But Loretta was having none of it. Ignoring me, she leapt out of the car and tripped merrily down the dark road to the brightly lit mansion in the distance. With a sigh, I picked up my evening bag and followed. I’d taken care with my appearance, as had Loretta, but I felt sure we’d be underdressed. (We were, in sharp contrast to the other guests.) Both of us favored a bohemian-casual look. A snapshot from that night shows Loretta in a fuchsia Bali-Hai number; me in a sparkly sweater with black pants tucked into heavy, lace-up boots.

  As I’d feared, the party, though as splendid and elegant as expected, was an introvert’s nightmare. The well-heeled crowd of lawyers stood shoulder to shoulder, shouting to be heard over the clamor and jostling one another to get to the bar. Although I desperately needed a drink, I was more interested in finding the buffet table. When our friend called to invite us, she’d said it was being done by Birmingham’s top caterer and not to miss the food. Loretta and I had skipped lunch in anticipation, but we couldn’t get anywhere near the dining room. Instead we joined the line for the bar, in the hopes that the mob at the buffet would’ve cleared out by the time we got our glass of wine.

  After a long wait at the bar, we were unceremoniously pushed out of the way by the crowd, our hard-earned pinot grigio sloshing in our hands. As I’d predicted, we knew no one there except the guest of honor, the new law partner who was nowhere to be seen. Shouting at each other over the crowd noise, Loretta and I decided to find our friend before trying the buffet again. Once we made our way to the back of the house, the guest of honor was easy to spot because she was so tall and stately. Although swamped by well-wishers, she stepped out to hug us and seemed genuinely pleased that we’d come. Then she shooed us away, so we wouldn’t miss the fabulous spread in the adjoining room.

  We didn’t make it, mainly because we were too intimidated to elbow our way in like everyone else did. Middle-aged schoolmarms, Loretta and I already stood out like a pair of wrens in a parade of peacocks; I didn’t want to create a ruckus by shoving and pushing our way to the trough. “I’m outta here,” I hissed at Loretta as we surveyed the crammed dining room. I had yet to catch sight of the table.

  “But I’m starving,” Loretta whined. “I did without lunch for this.”

  If she’d get her arse moving, I responded, we could get to the other party before all the food was gone.

  * * *

  As we expected, the other soiree could not have been more different. After the claustrophobic crush of lawyers, Loretta and I breathed a sigh of relief to be back among our own. Here, we were overdressed but knew no one would notice. Even in party attire, writers rarely make the best-dressed list. Also the event was on a much smaller scale, with only fifty or so folks. But we were running late so it was good news, bad news: no elbowing through a crowd, but the party was winding down. We’d missed a lot of it.

  Chance meetings, missed connections, wrong turns—none of us knows when our fate awaits us or how many obstacles stand in the pathway. Only later would I look back and marvel at the way things unfolded that night, but at the time, Loretta and I were just relieved to be there. We met several of the guests as they exited the librarian’s front door while we were entering. Once inside, Loretta scurried over to tell her husband we’d arrived, and I cornered one of the librarians to ask about the writer I most wanted to meet, one I’d admired for years.

  “I’d love to meet Pat Conroy,” I told the librarian after we’d hugged, the southern way of greeting even the slightest acquaintance. “It’d be great to tell my students about him.” I went on to explain to her how I used examples of his gorgeous prose style in handouts for my freshman classes.

  The librarian frowned. “Aw, shoot, honey—you just missed him. You know his dad, the Great Santini?”

  I didn’t, of course, but knew who she was referring to. The newspaper article about Pat’s appearance at the literary festival reported that his father, nicknamed “the Great Santini” as a fighter pilot in the Marines, would be there as well. Pat’s autobiographical novel, The Great Santini, had exposed his father’s abusive nature and the damage his family had suffered as a result. The book had been made into an Oscar-winning movie in 1979, starring Robert Duvall in the title role and Blythe Danner as Pat’s mother.

  The librarian continued. “The Great Santini got tired and Pat had to take him back to the hotel. I’m really sorry you didn’t get a chance to meet Pat! He’s so nice and friendly. Everyone on the library staff has fallen in love with him.”

  Disappointed, I asked about a couple of other writers I’d hoped to meet only to be told that they, too, had gone. (Over the years, I’ve forgotten who they were.) “But there are plenty of other folks here, so go mingle and enjoy yourself,” the librarian told me before hurrying off to continue her hostessing duties.

  I stood alone for a few minutes and looked around the spacious living room where folks huddled in groups, laughing and talking among themselves. Thankfully, Loretta and I had entered late without our tardiness being noticed or questioned. On my way to the refreshment table I’d spotted in the distance, I paused to greet a couple of friends. Then, taking care not to make eye contact with anyone else, I made a beeline for the table while I had the chance. No one was there, and plenty of food was left. Since I’d had nothing to eat since breakfast I was beginning to feel light-headed.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw that while I’d dawdled, Loretta had fixed herself a plate and stood with Bill at the other end of the dining room. Fortunately they weren’t looking my way, so I could grab something before joining them. She and Bill were talking with Jake, a bookseller I’d known for a long time, and a man whom I didn’t know. Broad-shouldered, with ruddy cheeks and a wreath of white hair, the man looked vaguely familiar, but I was too preoccupied with my imminent starvation to wonder why. In rumpled, baggy khakis and a red plaid shirt, the stranger was sloppily dressed even for a writer, so I figured him to be a presenter’s spouse who’d been dragged along.

  With their backs to me, Loretta’s group was in a lively conversation, and I checked furtively to make sure no one else was in the vicinity. Forgoing a plate, I started grabbing and gobbling like a starved mongrel—cheese, crackers, fruit, olives—while occasionally glancing over my shoulder to make sure my gluttony went unobserved.

  I’d just crammed a whole chocolate-covered strawberry into my mouth when I saw to my dismay that my friends were leading the stranger toward me. Mouth full of strawberry, I was unable to say a word when they introduced us. To this day, I can’t settle the debate over who actually made the introductions, as each of my friends takes credit for it. Jake will swear to his dying day that he did, as do Bill and Loretta, so I figure all three of them must’ve spoken at once. All I remember for sure is this: when Loretta said “Hey, girlfriend, I found Pat Conroy for you,” I choked, swallowed, and coughed before blurting out, “Oh, God Almighty!”

  Pat threw his head back and laughed a big, hearty laugh. “Not quite, but close enough.”

  “But . . . you can’t be Pat Conroy,” I cried, flustered. “When I asked about you, they told me that you’d gone to take your father to the hotel.”

  Pat shrugged. “Yeah, I was walking out the door when the hostess stopped me. She found someone else to take Dad because she wanted me to make an announcement for her.”

  Fate, Pat would later say. That’s how close we came to missing each other.

  Nervous now that I was in the presence of the writer I’d most wanted to meet—one I considered to be among the greatest living writers of our time—I began babbling like an idiot. Even when I saw that Bill, Loretta, and Jake were cringing on my behalf, I couldn’t stop myself. For some reason I felt compelled to explain to Pat about the crowded buffet at the other party, and why he’d caught me pigging out. Taking pity on me, Pat motioned toward the table. “I haven’t eaten tonight either. Why don’t you show me what’s good here?” With a nod toward the others, he added, “Y’all excuse us a minute, okay?”

  I
t was the perfect icebreaker. Since I’d already sampled everything, I pointed him toward several things that I’d enjoyed (though truthfully, I’d been too hungry to pay much attention to what I was eating). Pat got into it, though. I wouldn’t know until Beach Music came out what a foodie he was. He gave each thing I pointed to careful consideration, and he’d give me a thumbs-up and reach for another when something pleased him. The first conversation I had with Pat Conroy wasn’t about Proust or Faulkner, or even the other writers at the conference. We talked about food.

  While Pat and I were raiding the refreshments, my friends wandered off to seek more intellectual conversation. No doubt it was a relief to them, not having to witness my babbling humiliation any longer. Something unexpected had occurred over the bruschetta and cheese spread, however; Pat Conroy was so laid-back and friendly that I forgot to be awestruck. We chatted easily, as if we’d known each other all our lives. Which is not to say that being with him wasn’t intimidating. Pat had an imposing and vibrant presence, an undeniable aura of magnetism and charm. No doubt part of it was his size. Almost six feet tall, he had the rugged build of a linebacker and shoulders wide as a tree trunk. His coloring was wonderfully vivid, with the snow-white hair, ruddy face, and pale blue eyes. Although not conventionally good-looking, he was undeniably attractive.

  Soon my and Pat’s conversation would wander from food to writing. It was, after all, a literary conference. As Pat munched on the glazed pecans that I’d urged him to try, my mentor Bill came back over to us. (Later Bill would tell me why: it occurred to him that I was too shy to tell Pat about my book, and he wanted to brag on me since he’d been my thesis director when I worked on it. Bill was right; I would’ve never mentioned it otherwise.)

  “Since my favorite student’s got you cornered, Pat, I guess she’s telling you about her new book,” Bill said in his distinctive, West Alabama drawl. “Her first novel, and it’s coming out in a few months.”

  Grimacing, I tried to motion for Bill to shut his mouth, but it was too late. Pat turned to me in surprise, eyebrows raised.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a writer?” he demanded. “All this time, I thought you were the caterer or something.”

  “I-I’m not!” I stammered, red-faced. “I mean, it’s just a small press. I’m not really a writer—”

  Pat waved off my protests with his napkin, as though swatting at an annoying insect. “What’d you mean, you’re not really a writer? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’ve got a book coming out. You wrote it, right? Therefore, you’re a writer.”

  With a self-satisfied smile, Bill bade us goodbye and resumed his socializing with the other guests, pleased that he’d done his good deed for the day by connecting one of his former students with such an eminent writer. No doubt he was thinking to himself, Maybe he’ll give her some advice. God knows she needs it.

  “Now then,” Pat said, his bright eyes focused on me like laser beams. “Tell me about your book.”

  I started off stammering, not sure where to begin. But Pat helped me along, drawing me out with his questions, until I’d relaxed enough to tell him the whole story—not only about the book but also about how I’d worked on it in one form or another for a long time. Intrigued by the unusual title, Pat asked me to explain the significance. (Originally Making Waves in Zion, the title was shortened to Making Waves when it was reissued by my new publisher a few years later.) Making Waves, I told Pat, was the name I gave a beauty shop in the little community of Zion, the book’s setting. The inspiration came from a story I heard about an automobile accident that changed the lives of two young men. One walked away unharmed; the other one was crippled but would discover a long-buried talent during his rehab. I’d written the story partly to explore the idea of redemption through art, which would be a theme that I’d return to in each of my books. It was my story as well, in that writing had been redemptive in my own journey. That night was the first time I’d talked to anyone, even Bill, about why I’d been compelled to write the book I’d written.

  Pat was so easy to talk to, and seemed so genuinely interested in my writing, that I forgot whom I was confiding in, a world-renowned author whose work I fervently admired. He prodded me to put into words things about my writing—inspiration, character development, and recurring themes—that I’d never articulated. After the book came out and I found myself speaking to audiences, Pat’s insightful prodding helped me to develop talking points that I returned to again and again. Nothing could’ve been more helpful to someone like me whose main experience in addressing a group had been standing before a classroom of yawning, hungover college students.

  When I realized I was not only jabbering again but, even more embarrassing, going on and on about my book, I quickly changed the subject. I told Pat how much I loved his work, and how I thought I’d discovered him. I’d read his memoir of teaching, The Water Is Wide, right after it came out in the early 1970s. It inspired me to become a teacher. “Lots of people tell me that,” Pat said with a shrug. Oh well, I thought, hiding a smile, so much for originality. I didn’t tell him that my boys called their father the Great Santini when he had a temper tantrum, or that my oldest son’s favorite book ever was Pat’s second novel, The Lords of Discipline, which had been assigned reading in my son’s Honors English class.

  Our conversation turned to publishing, and first books. Pat told me the story of the first writer he asked for a blurb, and how the famous author turned him down by saying he couldn’t put his name on such an insignificant work by such an insignificant writer. “I hope you’ve had better luck with your requests,” he said with a chuckle.

  I didn’t know many writers, I admitted, but the few I knew had been kind enough to respond favorably to my pleas for blurbs. “But if I’d had your experience,” I told him with a shudder, “I would’ve never gotten up the nerve to ask anyone else.”

  Pat studied me a minute then said casually, “Have your publisher send me your book, okay? If I like it, I’ll give you a blurb. If not, I’ll pretend it got lost in the mail.”

  Before I could respond, the hostess interrupted our conversation to take our picture together. She then motioned for Bill and Loretta to come over and took one of the four of us, a copy of which Pat and I would later frame as a reminder of our first meeting—which came to an abrupt end after the photo-taking. The hostess took Pat’s arm and reminded him of the announcement he’d promised to make for her.

  Before he left to fulfill his obligation, Pat and I exchanged phone numbers and addresses so I could send him an advanced reading copy of my book. He held my card at arm’s length and studied it a minute before saying, “Oh God, another hyphenated three-named woman writer! But I like the sound of King-Ray, so I’ll just call you that.”

  I tried to tell him that, actually, it wasn’t hyphenated but he didn’t hear me because the hostess yanked his arm again to urge him on. Before he left, Pat gave me a warm, friendly hug and said, “It was great meeting you, King-Ray, and I really enjoyed our conversation. I can’t wait to read your book. If I don’t see you at the conference tomorrow, I’ll call you, okay?” He patted the pocket of his plaid shirt where he’d put my number.

  I didn’t believe it for a minute, but I smiled and waved goodbye as the hostess dragged him away. The paper on which he’d written his address as Fripp Island, South Carolina, was clutched in my hand. Watching him write it, I remember being surprised that he lived in the part of the country he’d written so beautifully about in The Prince of Tides. I could’ve sworn the article in the paper about his Birmingham appearance said that he lived in San Francisco. All I knew was, I dared not lose his address or my publisher would kill me. I could only imagine how thrilled the publisher was going to be at the prospect of my getting a blurb from a writer he’d often said topped his list of favorites.

  Pat wouldn’t be seeing me at the conference the next day, however. It would be years later, when we were reminiscing about our first meeting, before I told h
im why I wasn’t there. Although I’d been invited to the party, I couldn’t afford to purchase a ticket to the conference. (Rather than admit it to anyone, even Bill and Loretta, I’d pretended to have another commitment that weekend.) In the process of a divorce, I was struggling to make it on my own. Literary events, even the most reasonably priced ones, were luxuries I simply could not afford.

  Chapter 2

  Long Distance

  I didn’t expect to hear from Pat Conroy again, nor did I have any reason to think I would. What took place the night of the party has happened many times in the past and would happen many more in the future. We’ve all done it—met someone at a party and instantly became new best friends. Phone numbers are exchanged, get-togethers planned. Next time you come this way, let me know and we’ll have lunch! I’ve found names and numbers on pieces of paper in my purse and had absolutely no idea who they were or where we met. Pat and I had connected at the party, and during those moments I’d felt as if I’d known him forever, but that was it. It’d make a better story—certainly a more romantic one—to say that our eyes met across a crowded room while “One Enchanted Evening” played in the background. It wasn’t that way with us. Maybe those scenes only happen in romance novels.

  I let my publisher know right away to hold the presses—there might be another blurb coming for my book. As I figured, he was beside himself and said that a quote from an internationally bestselling author could be a big help for publicity. In the years to come I would read with amusement how Pat and I met when I asked him to blurb my first novel, which tickled us both. It wasn’t that I’d been afraid to ask him for a blurb; it just hadn’t occurred to me. I had a lot to learn about the publishing business. Josephine Humphries (one of my favorite writers ever, and a dear friend) once told an audience in Charleston that if it were true and I hadn’t asked Pat for a blurb, then I was the only writer in the South who hadn’t.