Destiny

By Terry Pringle

William Montgomery is writing a screenplay for a Texas tycoon who has achieved everything he wanted in life with one exception -- to make a movie. And he wants William to script a movie that’s as memorable as the drum solo in the 60s song, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.”
With no story, not even an idea, William isn’t confident in writing such a memorable script, but he’s freelancing for friends who have established a production company and are desperate to produce a feature film. Now that they have a client who is providing his own financing, a dream come true, William has to give it his best shot.

The tycoon decides the movie should be about heaven, so William writes a script about a man who undergoes a near death experience and is met by Jesus and Satan, who offer him a choice. Satan recommends the man return to life on earth, over which Satan rules, and fulfill his destiny. Jesus proposes the man remain in heaven, his perfect realm of eternal happiness. The character decides to return to life and fulfill his destiny. He has always wanted to build skyscrapers, and he plans to construct the tallest building in the world, a 3,000-foot structure called “The Texas” in downtown Dallas.

Writing such a screenplay has obstacles other than a contrived plot. Sofi, a singer in rehab, wants badly to be in the movie, and William finds himself attracted to her for reasons that aren’t professional. His attraction creates a problem with his ex-wife, with whom he wants to reunite. Along the way, the tycoon’s son creates a full-fledged scandal. The production company hires a director who wants William to come stay with him for a month so they can look at every word in the script, a prospect that causes William to consider making the script about hell rather than heaven.

The book follows a variety of characters seeking to fulfill their destiny in this often funny, always sexy adventure in movie-making.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Pringle
• Release date: Apr 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311050861

Terry Pringle

Terry Pringle was born in Jackson, Mississippi, but has lived in Texas most of his life. After serving in the U.S. Navy, he graduated from Texas A&I University with a degree in English and worked at a variety of “day jobs” while he wrote. For the last 25 years, he has been a copywriter and novelist. He lives in Abilene, Texas, with his wife, Brenda. Their son, Michael, lives in Atlanta.

Book preview

Destiny

By Terry Pringle

Copyright 2014 by Terry Pringle

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With a very limited exposure to the movie business, I relied on a variety of books to guide me through the movie-making process that forms the plot of this book. The two most important were The Movie Business Book edited by Jason E. Squire and Making Movies by Sidney Lumet. Although both are very informative books, the latter offers the insights of one of the creative giants of the industry. Lumet’s book will enlighten anyone interested in the process of making a movie.

Neither book, however, could answer specific questions that arose, but a friend, Geoff Moore, did. With David Posamentier, Geoff wrote and directed Better Living Through Chemistry, a true gem of a movie, and Geoff answered all the questions I had. I appreciated his time and still do, although I offer this disclaimer to a reader: Geoff isn’t responsible for -- and shouldn’t be blamed for -- any of my failures to follow the usual practices in making movies. This book is, after all, a work of fiction.

Chapter 1

The woman walked across the room with a sense of drama I hadn’t seen outside a movie, a key dangling from the fingertips of her outstretched hand. With each slow step, she spoke a sentence, first, I know what you need. On the next step, she added, I know where it is. And after another step, she finished with, I know how to get it. She ended up standing before me a few feet away, showing me the gold key as though it would fulfill her multiple assurances. It appeared to be a normal house key, whereas her words were more appropriate for a magic lamp.

I wasn’t usually at a loss for words. In fact, glib responses often just flowed from my mouth without any conscious effort, but I wasn’t at all sure what to make of this woman with the key. And in keeping with her dramatic entrance, she stood silently before me. When I reached for the key, she closed her fingers around it and held it behind her back.

She was dressed casually, maybe too casually to actually know what I needed, where it was and how to get it. Wearing faded jeans, sandals and a long white top, she was probably my age, in her late 30s, and was very cute with light brown hair that had a wind-blown look. I might have known her identity because she looked familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place her.

I finally managed a less-than-memorable response. Do I know you?

The receptionist snorted from behind me, a superficial beauty who looked like a model and who found me wanting in every respect. She even thought my name was too long. Will-i-am Mont-gom-er-y, she’d say slowly in an idiotic rhythm as she hit each syllable. The requirement to speak such an excessively long name taxed her attitude and energy.

The three of us were in the reception area of the main office of the Retreat, an exclusive drug rehab facility in the hills near Austin that drew the mildly famous and children of the rich. The woman with the key had entered from a door that led to the residence of the founder of the Retreat, the man I was here to see. From the outside, the building appeared to be nothing more than a small office among oak trees at the base of a hill, but he had built an elaborate residence within the hill hidden from view. The woman with the key obviously knew him, and I knew I’d seen her before, but I couldn’t place her.

Why don’t you introduce us? I said to the receptionist.

She shook her head, not in refusal but in sorrow. You are so lame.

"I know who you are," the unidentified woman said as though noting the absurdity of the situation, that she would know me, but I would be clueless on her identity.

Well, okay, give me a hint then. Have I seen you doing this on TV? I asked, holding my arms up as if I’d been arrested.

She shook her head and frowned. No way was she going to lower herself by giving me hints of any kind.

Are you the girl who used to beat me up on the playground in the first grade? I asked. If so, I remember you as being bigger.

A slight narrowing of the eyes let me know she could become easily irritated by my joking approach. She was obviously a celebrity of some sort, someone accustomed to instant recognition, and limiting the realm from which she had come was helpful. She was -- what? As dramatic as her entrance had been, she could have been an actress, but I didn’t think she was. Maybe she was a media personality. Or a singer.

Ah! That was it -- she was indeed a singer. I tried not to smile with the recognition and instead gave her an intent look that I hoped indicated I remained mystified. At the same time I started humming the tune to Can’t You Wait Till the Body’s Cold, her only number one hit, a departure from the rock and blues she normally sang, music that had given her a devoted following but that had never attracted a mass audience. She’d written Can’t You Wait Till the Body’s Cold as a bitter kind of joke about her mother’s appearance with another man at her father’s funeral. At concerts she always pretended to resist singing it because it wasn’t a serious song, but the audience would demand it. She’d ignore the requests for a while, but she always sang it, and when she did, the crowd would go wild. She knew how to play an audience.

When she realized I was humming her song, she tried to keep from smiling but couldn’t. Instead she offset the smile by cursing. "Oh, that is so fucking low. She waved her hand, slicing the air to show how low. I mean, that is so low you couldn’t slide a piece of paper under it."

I smiled without restraint, elated to be standing this close to her. I’d heard her sing at a concert right here in Austin several years ago, but I had never talked to Amy Sophia Hardin. After getting started as Amy Hardin in a musical career that hadn’t progressed beyond bars that didn’t even reach the level of honky tonk, she had decided she needed a better name, better management and a better band. She became Sofi, and the changes had certainly increased her popularity, audiences and venues. I had always found her charming and sexy and somehow innocent even though she couldn’t have harbored even the slightest shred of innocence. Her drug use was legendary, and she’d lost a best friend and band member to an overdose. Sofi was obviously here for rehab, and my ignorance as to why she had the key to my destiny seemed even greater.

What’s with the key? I asked.

She waved me toward the front door, and I followed. I thought the receptionist would ignore me, but she said, Bye, Bill. See? Short and sweet. Bye, Bill!

Unfortunately, Bill had never stuck, nor had any other nickname, and I remained William Montgomery. I didn’t even know her name. It was Hillasandro or Glausanrdo or something similar. If I asked, she’d just say, Don’t worry about my name. Just do something about yours.

Outside, Sofi stopped not far from the front door of the office in a grove of oak trees, looking around the grounds as though she was the visitor and approved of what she saw. In the afternoon light outside, she looked young and fit, even healthy, a surprise considering the life she reportedly led.

This place seems to agree with you, I said. You really look good.

Accustomed to compliments, she gave me an automatic smile. Thank you.

In fact, you don’t look like you belong out here. That is, assuming you’re actually an inmate. Or whatever they’re called.

The proper term for someone in treatment out here is ‘cash cow.’ They should be ashamed to charge as much as they do.

I bet you they regret it every time they call an armored car so they can make a deposit. You still haven’t told me about the key. I take it there’s a lock somewhere, and that key is a perfect fit. The question is, where is the lock?

Out in the country. She looked at the key, turned it a couple of times so she could see both sides. It’s where you’ll find the information you need from Stan.

I had come for that information from Stan, the founder of the Retreat, and was surprised Sofi was involved. The information, as I understood it, was personal even though it was supposed to be the source material for a movie. The notes described a mysterious experience Stan had undergone some years back. Even though I had written two books for the man, I was unfamiliar with the details of what he called an encounter with life. The experience had led him to open several drug rehab centers, including the largest and most successful, the one upon which grounds we stood.

Stan asked you to show me his notes? I asked, wondering how Sofi had become his confidant when his ghostwriter had not.

She gave a shrugging motion accompanied by a confident smile. Well, I have this gift for moving things along.

Really? I said. What needs to be moved along?

She pointed her finger at me. I always say, if you’re going to make a movie, make a movie. She smiled. Did you like my entrance in there? I was really into the whole idea of a dramatic entrance. Not that I was auditioning or anything.

I was hit with a sense of disappointment. Just this brief meeting had seemed to promise titillation and flirtation -- until now. Sofi had already considered the potential of this meeting and co-opted it for herself. I held my hand out in hopes of getting the key and relieving myself of a person whose interests had pre-empted my interests.

She shook her head. I can’t tell you how to get out there. I have to show you.

Before you waste a lot of your time, let me tell you a couple of things. First, there are no plans for a movie of any kind at the moment. Two, even if there were, I wouldn’t have any authority to help you out. In fact, if you want to talk to me about a movie, you’ll have to get down on the ground to face me because I’m at the very bottom of the totem pole. The very bottom.

Don’t you mean first and then second?

Huh?

You said ‘first’ and then ‘two.’ You meant your first point and then your second point, not first, then two. She smiled and shook her head over the length of time required for me to figure out what she was saying. We can thank Mr. Perkins, my high school English teacher, for this lesson in grammar. He corrected me once for the same thing. She waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, she asked, Have you ever noticed how long you remember a correction? You know, unless it comes from your parents. Then it’s in and out, she said, pointing at the ear into which a correction would go speeding on its way to the other ear and forgetfulness. She waited for me to respond, but I didn’t. Why’d you pick that stupid song to hum a while ago? Is that the only song of mine you know?

Not hardly. You sang one of my all-time favorites. Maybe my number one favorite.

Which is?

Why don’t you guess. If you’re smart enough to correct my grammar, guessing my favorite song ought to be a piece of cake.

‘One More Time.’

She was right. The song had been nominated for a Grammy, and I had listened to it over and over, hitting the repeat switch on the CD player and drinking and listening and getting so sad I cried. It was about a woman who regretted breaking up and wanted a chance to get back together but never got one.

Too easy, I said. That’s probably everybody’s favorite.

Not everybody’s, she said. One person hates it.

I’m guessing it’s a man who thought you loved him.

She nodded. He deserved better. Have you written things that you knew would hurt someone, but you did it anyway?

I nodded.

She looked around, checking out the two cars parked in the trees. Is this your usual speed? Because, you know, we don’t seem to be going anywhere. And I’m running out of witty conversation. So maybe I could suggest we move along?

If you don’t have anything witty to say, we’ll have a pretty boring trip.

Well, I have some really interesting car conversation set aside.

And what information are we going to retrieve as you regale me with your car conversation?

A stack of papers like this, she said, measuring an inch or so with her thumb and forefinger. It’s in an old building out in the country.

And where’s this building? I asked, although I already knew.

Okay, you know where Belle Chance is? On the other side of Belle Chance a few miles, there’s an old building that used to be a hotel about a hundred years ago.

More like a hundred and forty years ago, I said. That isolated location seemed to be the only place Stan could get anything done when we started working on a book. His method of providing the material would be procrastination for at least a month, all while telling me he was working on it, even though he wasn’t. Then he’d go to the old hotel out on his property, someplace he wouldn’t be bothered, and spend 72 hours or so engaged in one long regurgitation of the material I needed. It was the perfect place for someone who liked natural solitude, and that meant Stan wasn’t there often. When I discovered it, I went out there to write his books, and I loved it because I could get lost in the silence.

How do you know where it is? she asked, alarmed at my possession of unexpected knowledge.

I explained how Stan and I had both used the property and said, I know where it is, and I can get into the building without the key. So. . . I shrugged and started for my car.

Wait, wait, wait, wait! she said, hurrying after me. What if I told you I need a ride out there to get something? Something I left. Not my virginity but. . . She thought for a moment. Oh, I remember now. My sex tape. I was editing it out there on Stan’s computer. Maybe you can help me finish it. Or make another one? She shrugged. Who knew?

When I laughed, she knew she had me, and she walked in front of me to the car, the correct one, although she had a 50-50 chance of guessing the right one since there were only two cars under the trees.

Sofi’s inclusion fit perfectly into the strange process already underway. It wasn’t a case of Murphy’s Law in which things went wrong. They had started wrong. Almost any change would be an improvement. The idea of making a movie had started with Stan’s father, Stanley Gaines Senior, a legendary Texas tycoon. One of the items remaining on his to do list was to make a movie. He’d been born into poverty and now lived in one of the biggest mansions in Dallas. He’d been in a war. He’d been up and down in the oil business and had once built the biggest building in Dallas, then developed a great deal of North Dallas. He’d cavorted with celebrities, and making a movie had been banging around in his head for a while. He’d done nothing about it until one day he called me and said it was time to make a movie.

He knew me because I’d attempted to write his memoirs. The project remained unfinished and would probably never be complete. His wife, a charming woman named Sally Anne, had vetoed almost every story Senior told me and I put in writing. No, no, no, she’d say. Absolutely not. That will never be in any book about us. Although the project was unfinished, I remained Senior’s writer of choice, and he didn’t care if there was a difference between a book and a screenplay. I was to write a script for him.

I tried talking him out of it, telling him diplomatically that a person should have a desire to make a movie about something and know what that something was, not merely to be in possession of a desire to make a movie. I quoted Orson Welles since Senior was old enough to know him: The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.

He laughed. Good thing we’re entertainers and not artists then.

The thought still applies. We need to start from somewhere specific, not everywhere.

That’s why I’m calling you. I need your best shot.

Mr. Gaines, you’re talking to a non-visionary. I make my living as a ghostwriter. I have no ideas of my own.

I don’t believe that, he said.

Unfortunately, a proposed solution came floating in from the son, Stan Junior, who proclaimed his own story to be perfect, one about an experience that had changed his life and made him what he was today (a questionable accomplishment). His encounter with life had given him the name of his nonprofit, Encounter with Life Foundation, an organization he’d set up along with his rehab facilities after getting rich in the tech boom. Junior was rich, but Senior was in much better position to finance a movie. He not only had more money, but he’d find investors. He lived for the wheeling and dealing, going into someone’s home and convincing them they should join in this amazing venture of his and seize the opportunity to be richly rewarded. In fact, the movie wouldn’t be as important to Senior without the wheeling and the dealing.

Now Sofi and I were on our way to discover the secrets behind the Encounter with Life Foundation and Junior’s philosophy and world view. I doubted that the latter would require a stack of pages.

You’re not like I thought you’d be, not from reading your book, she said. But neither was Emily.

This was a compound surprise that caused me to sit up straight. You’ve met Emily and read my book?

She nodded.

This was going to be at least the second time I had personally disappointed someone who liked Letters from Emily, my most successful book, a love story based on correspondence that had incorporated a great deal of my ex-wife’s email and letters along with my own. I had used Emily’s name in the title even though we were no longer married when the book was published. She had agreed to let me use her letters but had declined to be named as co-author. The book had become a bestseller and acquired some devoted fans, some so devoted they had surprised me.

Emily now worked for an ad agency that provided fundraising services for Stan’s foundation and advertising for the Retreat. Stan had suggested using Sofi for a testimonial about the Retreat and asked Emily to talk to her and then write the story. Sofi hadn’t realized who Emily was until later. I wouldn’t have known she was Emily from the book when I met her. Just like I wouldn’t have known you from the book. She was nice though, just very professional. I kept trying to get her to be less professional, but. . . She shrugged. Maybe she didn’t like me. Nadia calls her Mama.

Another compound surprise, which was apparently routine with Sofi. You’ve talked to Nadia? About Emily?

She nodded. Why does she call Emily Mama?

Nadia considered Emily stiff and overly serious, capable of producing unneeded children and nothing else. Nadia was, of course, wrong. Emily only had one child, and although she was reserved and often serious, she was the opposite of the bourgeois frump Nadia’s use of Mama implied. I gave Sofi the short answer. Nadia thinks she’s a frump.

Boy, I didn’t get that idea at all.

Her ability to control her impulses mystifies Nadia. Nadia can’t control anything. Her nickname used to be the Rocket.

Somehow this one woman was way ahead of me. She had already talked to Nadia, one of the two principals in Portabella Productions, the company that had sent me here to assess the value of Stan’s experience as source material for a movie. If Sofi had talked to Nadia, then she knew that Nadia was absolutely determined to get a feature film produced, and she believed this was the best opportunity she’d ever have. In the same manner, Sofi apparently believed this was her best chance to get a part in a movie.

How did you end up talking to Nadia? I asked.

Stan knew who she was. And I had a movie idea I wanted to talk to someone about. Not that I should have bothered.

Before you could get it out of your mouth, she said, ‘Forget it. The market for music movies is dead.’

She nodded, almost angry. Yes, that’s about what she said.

She was blowing you off because she wasn’t interested. You should have told her that halfway through the movie, a Grammy Award-winning singer is revealed to be an alien. She eats the Grammy Award on live TV. Or she comes out as a vampire. Or maybe even a zombie. She still wouldn’t have been interested, but you could have got your whole pitch out.

Do you want to hear it?

I probably don’t have to say yes, do I?

Well, to be polite you do.

Okay, go ahead. You have my undivided attention for fifteen seconds.

It’s mostly autobiographical, but it says a lot about the music business, she said without hesitation, ready to take full advantage of the opportunity to talk about her idea. Her movie had sex, drugs, and rock and roll, but it was also about the frustrations, the desire to write good songs only to see them ignored while a joke song shot to the top of the charts. It was about realizing that many people came to a concert for the same reason they went to a party. They were there to have a good time, to jump up and down and scream, to do drugs, to get physical, to take their clothes off. Sofi was just an excuse for them to come together. So if you were in Nadia’s position, would you be interested?

I’d love the character because I have a thing for female singers, which is why I’m divorced. I might be interested if she was a character in a larger story, you know, if our singer was involved in some kind of murder plot or the investigation of a Mexican drug cartel. Maybe the kingpin kidnaps her so he can hear her sing whenever he wants. Puts her in a tower or something.

She looked at me to see if I was serious and I shrugged. Who knew?

What’s your interest in movies? I asked.

My interest in movies is related to my singing career, which no longer exists. I don’t want to start all over again in the music business. I really don’t. If I’m starting over, I want to do something brand new. I can act. I know I can act. I’ve been acting my whole life. And I love movies.

It didn’t seem likely that she and I could have a normal relationship. It would always have career and business at its core, which made me the equivalent of an agent or manager. Oh, well, I thought. I had come to Austin with the intention of seeing Emily anyway, not Sofi. Emily and I had been carrying on a lightweight romance via email. It was so lightweight it probably would have gone unnoticed by anyone reading our exchanges. We’d been divorced five years and the opportunity to see her was always a good reason for me to return to Austin. But our romance seemed to lose even its light weight when I found out she was divorced from her second husband in the same way I’d found out she was pregnant with her daughter -- from a friend. The fact that she didn’t tell me she was divorced should have discouraged any thought that we’d get back together, but I wanted to see her before I gave up altogether.

When you talked to Emily, did she know who you are? I asked, wanting to somehow believe she didn’t know Sofi was a real singer. I mean, was she acquainted with your music before she came to talk to you about doing a story?

She thought a moment, then said, I think she mentioned the same two songs you did. Maybe others but I think those two for sure. Why?

I wish she hadn’t talked to you. I was going to see her while I was here, but once she finds out I’ve been with you . . . I shook my head. She knows that in my world, female singers are something like deities. She’ll blow me off quicker than Nadia blew you off.

We could go see her together. I really liked her. She was asking me questions, but I wanted to talk about her. I wanted to go get a drink with her, but, you know, I don’t drink and there aren’t many substitutes. She paused, then said, Sex, maybe.

Are you kidding? You’re hot for Emily? I asked, shocked but thinking her attraction to Emily made perfect sense. I’d always wanted Emily, and I figured others did as well, both men and women.

I can’t believe I said that, she said, shaking her head. But maybe I was hot for her. I really wanted to find out more about her, and I’m not usually that way unless it’s somebody I’m interested in. She thought about it a minute, then said, Huh.

She has a great body. She looks like she was made for sex. She’s fleshier than you are, and she’d love to have the body you’ve got, but she’d never make it if she had to get it through exercising. She’s not physical that way.

You think she’d like my body? she asked, sitting upright and causing her breasts to make a more well-defined appearance under her white top.

I know she would. She’d love your hard body. She’s been trying to get rid of her stomach her whole life. She just can’t do it.

You don’t say things about her stomach, do you?

Only to you, I said, appalled by the conversation I was making. But it seemed I could say anything to Sofi. I love her stomach. She has a little pouch, you know, just enough so you can see it.

Let’s go ask her if we can see it. Do you think she’d show us?

It’s possible. She’s kind of a closet exhibitionist.

She’s been known to flash?

I nodded. Yes, she has.

When was the last time you guys had sex?

Before the divorce, I said, realizing I was talking about a version of Emily’s stomach that no longer existed. I hadn’t seen Emily naked in six years. I hadn’t seen her naked since she became a mother. She might really hate her stomach now.

We entered the small town of Belle Chance, a pleasant-looking place, especially in comparison to small Texas towns in general. Most were in advanced stages of decay, and their downtown areas were usually shoestring antique and novelty shops occupying the few buildings left standing in what often looked like the bombed-out ruins of a World War II village. Downtown Belle Chance, however, was well-maintained. The brick road around the courthouse square was lined with actual businesses, including a grocery store that was hard to miss with a bright green storefront. It was the only store in town that I had been in.

What’d you mean about female singers and your divorce? she asked.

Crap, I thought. I couldn’t believe I’d given someone an opening to ask that question, not after finally getting beyond hearing, Did you have sex with Carla Young? Since I didn’t know Sofi and had no idea what she’d do with the information, I told her only that I’d been involved with a singer. Emily found out and ended the marriage.

She turned toward me, bringing her leg up on the seat. Who was it?

I’ll never tell.

I know. I just wanted to see if you trusted me enough to say.

You don’t know.

Oh, really? Well, let’s see. Was she fat, ugly and named Carla Young?

How’d you know that?

She returned to her normal seating posture, facing forward. Nadia told me. Nadia’s like me. She’ll tell you anything, even that you’d done something so disgusting.

On the other side of town, we drove several miles on a county road, paved but very narrow, and didn’t see another car. The countryside was one of hills and trees, mostly oak but a lot of cedar as well, and the land wasn’t being used for anything other than hunting. I saw the entrance to Stan’s property before Sofi did and turned in, rattling across a cattle guard. We briefly followed a gravel road before it dwindled to parallel paths through the grass and weeds, so faint at times I could barely make them out. The afternoon was thoroughly pleasant, and I rolled down all the windows to fully enjoy the day.

Suddenly Sofi sat straight up and shouted, "William! Carla Young! Her voice was so loud that she sent a deer running and three turkeys flew out of a tree. She shocked herself as well as me, and for a moment she made herself smaller and less conspicuous as though hoping no one would notice she was the disturber of the peace. Sorry, but all of a sudden I just couldn’t stand it. You and Carla Young are as bad as me and Larry the Cable Guy. Come on, William. Promise me you will never do that again!"

My pulse had shot way up with her shout, and I thought, so much for the pleasant day. First of all, it was six years ago. Two, she’s not fat and she’s not ugly. At least she wasn’t then. I don’t know why people say she’s fat and ugly.

Third, three, firstly and lastly, you were probably so freaking drunk you didn’t even know what you were doing. At least, I hope you were. I can’t imagine how insulted Emily felt. It’s a wonder she didn’t do something drastic.

She did. She threw a big green fish through a window and went out and fucked the first man she saw.

Who could blame her?

Don’t get carried away, I said, recalling some of the stories I’d heard about her. Should you be casting the first stone? Are you without sin?

She laughed rather weakly through her nose. Good point. Were you drunk?

I was not only drunk, but I swore off booze after that. I still don’t drink much.

Huh, she said, raising her eyebrows. Carla Young as one-night rehab. Maybe she is good for something.

I would have said I loved Carla’s music, but Sofi would have taken the declaration as an insult, at least as a vote for a competitor.

It’s no wonder I didn’t know you from your book, she said. You’re not anything like that.

I just shook my head over the hopeless nature of explaining fiction to people and said nothing.

We drove about two miles deeper into the property, scaring up a variety of wildlife ranging from rabbits to deer, before we topped a hill and saw what had once been an old fort, a few partial buildings and chimneys built of the kind of rock found in this area, the color of honey, growing up through the weeds, with the one main building still in use. Every time I saw the place, I thought about those stories of soldiers who hadn't heard the war had ended. I halfway expected to see a grizzled old cavalry trooper come walking out of the building, still waiting to hear the Indian wars were over.

I