natural.
She said, barely moving her lips, 'I missed you.' I glanced at the dog lying on the floor behind her, at the stuffed bear sitting on the countertop. I stared into her eyes for a few silent seconds and said,
'I missed you too.'
And at that moment, a future seemed to emerge from the past, like life from ashes, like wine from old grapes, something with a bit of whimsy and so much more.
'Good,' she said. 'Don't be a jackass again.'
'I'm promising you,' I replied. 'I won't.'
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Ande Zelleman, my first and best reader and the one who encouraged me the earliest and hardest to write something other than the daily news.
To Richard Abate and the elite team at International Creative Management, who gave me equal doses of encouragement and expertise.
To George Lucas of Pocket Books. His talent with words is exceeded only by his way with people. The book wouldn't be this book without his deft hand, his vivid imagination, and his seemingly blind faith in the writer fortunate enough to pen these pages.
To my sister Carol, who helped me with the medical scenarios contained within, to my sister Colleen, who didn't so much encourage as provoke me into this endeavor, to my mother, who's always been there for everything else.
To the great people of The Boston Globe; especially Michael Larkin, who hired me too many years ago and still edits me now; Matt Storin, the editor who has entrusted me with the greatest jobs I will ever know; David Shribman, the wisest and warmest of bureau chiefs in the city-Washington, D.c. - that has gotten all too cold. Thanks as well to Greg Moore and Helen Donovan for their confidence. It's a crazy, wonderful way to make a living, this business of newspapers, and there's no better place to do it than the Globe.
