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Chapter One
THE AIR WAS MOIST, THE COMING RAIN telegraphed by plump, gray clouds, and the blue sky
fast fading. The 1936 four-door Lincoln Zephyr sedan moved down the winding road at a
decent, if unhurried, pace. The car's interior was filled with the inviting aromas of warm
sourdough bread, baked chicken, and peach and cinnamon pie from the picnic basket that sat
so temptingly between the two children in the backseat.
Louisa Mae Cardinal, twelve years old, tall and rangy, her hair the color of sun-dappled
straw and her eyes blue, was known simply as Lou. She was a pretty girl who would almost
certainly grow into a beautiful woman. But Lou would fight tea parties, pigtails, and
frilly dresses to the death. And somehow win. It was just her nature.
The notebook was open on her lap, and Lou was filling the blank pages with writings of
importance to her, as a fisherman does his net. And from the girl's pleased look, she was
landing fat cod with every pitch and catch. As always, she was very intent on her writing.
Lou came by that trait honestly, as her father had such fever to an even greater degree
than his daughter.
On the other side of the picnic basket was Lou's brother, Oz. The name was a contraction
of his given one, Oscar. He was seven, small for his age, though there was the promise of
height in his long feet. He did not possess the lanky limbs and athletic grace of his
sister. Oz also lacked the confidence that so plainly burned in Lou's eyes. And yet he
held his worn stuffed bear with the unbreakable clench of a wrestler, and he had a way
about him that naturally warmed other's souls. After meeting Oz Cardinal, one came away
convinced that he was a little boy with a heart as big and giving as God could bestow on
lowly, conflicted mortals.
Jack Cardinal was driving. He seemed unaware of the approaching storm, or even the car's
other occupants. His slender fingers drummed on the steering wheel. The tips of his
fingers were callused from years of punching the typewriter keys, and there was a
permanent groove in the middle finger of his right hand where the pen pressed against it.
Badges of honor, he often said.
As a writer, Jack assembled vivid landscapes densely populated with flawed characters who,
with each turn of the page, seemed more real than one's family. Readers would often weep
as a beloved character perished under the writer's nib, yet the distinct beauty of the
language never overshadowed the blunt force of the story, for the themes imbedded in Jack
Cardinal's tales were powerful indeed. But then an especially well-tooled line would come
along and make one smile and perhaps even laugh aloud, because a bit of humor was often
the most effective tool for painlessly driving home a serious point.
Jack Cardinal's talents as a writer had brought him much critical acclaim, and very little
money. The Lincoln Zephyr did not belong to him, for luxuries such as automobiles, fancy
or plain, seemed forever beyond his reach. The car had been borrowed for this special
outing from a friend and admirer of Jack's work. Certainly the woman sitting next to him
had not married Jack Cardinal for money.
Amanda Cardinal usually bore well the drift of her husband's nimble mind. Even now her
expression signaled good-natured surrender to the workings of the man's imagination, which
always allowed him escape from the bothersome details of life. But later, when the blanket
was spread and the picnic food was apportioned, and the children wanted to play, she would
nudge her husband from his literary alchemy. And yet today Amanda felt a deeper concern as
they drove to the park. They needed this outing together, and not simply for the fresh air
and special food. This surprisingly warm late winter's day was a godsend in many ways. She
looked at the threatening sky.
Go away, storm, please go away now.
To ease her skittish nerves, Amanda turned and looked at Oz and smiled. It was hard not to
feel good when looking at the little boy, though he was a child easily frightened as well.
Amanda had often cradled her son when Oz had been seized by a nightmare. Fortunately, his
fearful cries would be replaced by a smile when Oz would at last focus on her, and she
would want to hold her son always, keep him safe always.
Oz's looks came directly from his mother, while Lou had a pleasing variation of Amanda's
long forehead and her father's lean nose and compact angle of jaw. And yet if Lou were
asked, she would say she took after her father only. This did not reflect disrespect for
her mother, but signaled that, foremost, Lou would always see herself as Jack Cardinal's
daughter.
Amanda turned back to her husband. "Another story?" she asked as her fingers
skimmed Jack's forearm.
The man's mind slowly rocked free from his latest concocting and Jack looked at her, a
grin riding on full lips that, aside from the memorable flicker of his gray eyes, were her
husband's most attractive physical feature, Amanda thought.
"Take a breath, work on a story," said Jack.
"A prisoner of your own devices," replied Amanda softly, and she stopped rubbing
his arm.
As her husband drifted back to work, Amanda watched as Lou labored with her own story.
Mother saw the potential for much happiness and some inevitable pain in her daughter. She
could not live Lou's life for her, and Amanda knew she would have to watch her little girl
fall at times. Still, Amanda would never hold out her hand, for Lou being Lou would
certainly refuse it. But if her daughter's fingers sought out her mother's, she would be
there. It was a situation burdened with pitfalls, yet it seemed the one destined for
mother and daughter.
"How's the story coming, Lou?"
Head down, hand moving with the flourishing thrust of youthful penmanship, Lou said,
"Fine." Amanda could easily sense her daughter's underlying message: that
writing was a task not to be discussed with nonwriters. Amanda took it as good-naturedly
as she did most things having to do with her volatile daughter. But even a mother
sometimes needed a comforting pillow on which to lay her head, so Amanda reached out and
tousled her son's blondish hair. Sons were not nearly so complex, and as much as Lou wore
her out, Oz rejuvenated his mother.
"How're you doing, Oz?" asked Amanda.
The little boy answered by letting out a crowing sound that banged off all sides of the
car's interior, startling even the inattentive Jack.
"Miss English said I'm the best rooster she's ever heard," said Oz, and crowed
again, flapping his arms. Amanda laughed and even Jack turned and smiled at his
son.
Lou smirked at her brother, but then reached over and tenderly patted Oz on the hand.
"And you are too, Oz. A lot better than me when I was your age," said
Lou.
Amanda smiled at Lou's remark and then said, "Jack, you're coming to Oz's school
play, aren't you?"
Lou said, "Mom, you know he's working on a story. He doesn't have time to watch Oz
playing a rooster."
"I'll try, Amanda. I really will this time," Jack said. However, Amanda knew
that the level of doubt in his tone heralded another disappointment for Oz. For
her.
Amanda turned back and stared out the windshield. Her thoughts showed through so clearly
on her features.
Life married to Jack Cardinal: I'll try.
Oz's enthusiasm, however, was undiminished. "And next I'm going to be the Easter
Bunny. You'll be there, won't you, Mom?"
Amanda looked at him, her smile wide and easing her eyes to pleasing angles.
"You know Mom wouldn't miss it," she said, giving his head another gentle
rub.
But Mom did miss it. They all missed it.
Excerpted from WISH YOU WELL (c) Copyright 2000 by David Baldacci. Reprinted with permission from Warner Books. All rights reserved.
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