useful comments

Here's a comment I received on the last installment, Girl Meets Boy:

"Ooooh, I like Ben. A lot. Too bad he's about to become taken.

Why is he both Shea and Ben in the narrative? Maybe pick either first or last name and stick with it? (I vote for first name.)"

First: Keep your grubby mitts off Ben Shea. He's mine — er, Kielle's. This should lay to rest any question about whether I'm writing my own fantasy here. Of course I am!

Stick around, though. Ben isn't as perfect as he seems.

Second: D'OH! Yes, I should pick one name and stick with it. Maybe I was trying to convey that he went from stranger to friend in Kielle's mind. But you're right, it looks messy.

Third: I've got the rest of that evening fairly well outlined in my head; just need to sit down and pound it out.

Yeah, I say "just" as if it's so easy to do. But did I mention that I wrote all of Girl Meets Boy longhand in my p&p journal over the course of about 5 hours/2 evenings? Longhand, for god's sake! I don't usually do that, since hello, writer's cramp. But that's how that bit came about. There's something to be said for it; the slower pace of writing longhand forces me to slow my thinking as well and perhaps do a more thorough job of describing things — to produce a painting, not a photograph, to borrow a phrase from the inimitable Sean Altman.

Still crankin'. Stay tuned.

Girl Meets Boy

[Editor's note: This occurs mid-story when our heroine meets her love interest. It's always very interesting to me to see how different this stuff is on paper as opposed to how it goes in my head.]

The groom's dinner was well underway when we arrived. Roger's parents had quite a spread arranged: a wet bar near the backyard pool, a hog roasting over open coals, a dozen picnic tables beneath the trees, a vast lawn for games, a small stage with amps and speakers for live music and, a couple hundred yards from the house, a pile of wood for a bonfire. It looked like it was going to be quite an evening.

Maura introduced me to the bride, the boys' cousin Danielle Shea, right away and graciously kept me at her side as she mingled with the growing crowd of friends and relatives. Soon someone engaged me in discussing web site design, freeing Maura to continue on her own. I was grateful to the woman chatting to me; I'd felt like a fifth wheel despite Maura's insistence that I was not, but I figured she was just loath to leave a guest home alone.

As my conversation partner moved on, I turned toward the sound of a mufflerless motorcycle roaring up the drive. For a moment I hoped it was Quill, but of course it couldn’t be; no way would Nancy Wainwright show up to a party on the back of a Harley.

Thinking about it, I was glad it wasn't them after all. I wasn't looking forward to matching wits with Nancy here in her element, the social milieu of her future in-laws. She belonged here. I didn't. Chances were good she'd make sure everyone knew it.

Still gazing across the yard, I watched a tall man in black leathers—no helmet—dismount the gleaming machine. He stowed jacket and chaps in the saddlebags flanking the rear seat, revealing a forest green polo shirt tucked into crisp khakis. Quite a contrast between the outer and the inner wardrobe. Wide shoulders, narrow hips. He tucked his sunglasses away and turned toward the pool deck where I stood. I caught my breath.

There he is, I thought.

There who is? I immediately asked. I didn't know. I was sure I had never seen this man before, yet I felt a frisson of recognition. Was it some sort of déjà vu, or did I just like his silhouette against the late afternoon sun?

Stop staring, Kielle, I scolded myself. I turned away and busied myself getting a Coke at the well stocked bar, forcibly keeping my eyes averted from the driveway. That's what a photographic memory is for, doofus. So you don't have to keep staring.

I spent the next half hour circulating, explaining who I was and how I knew the happy couple. My connection to the Kellys proved to be a perfect conversation starter, as everyone knew them and most were related to them somehow. Several people said they followed the PC blog and enjoyed my work, which was very flattering to hear. I was coming to appreciate Southerners' easy small talk, so different from the tight-lipped Northerners I was used to.

Quin and Nolie arrived, followed shortly by Quentin with Leah and Jocelyn. After making the greeting rounds with their husbands and freeing them to catch up with the welter of first, second and third cousins, the women sent Jocelyn off to play and joined me near the water. Veterans of numerous Kelly/Shea clan gatherings, they enjoyed filling me in on who was who and sharing amusing family stories. There were plenty of incriminating anecdotes featuring the Kelly brothers and various accomplices, which I promised to file away as blackmail material.

Some of the younger kids changed clothes to swim under the watchful eyes of their older siblings, their raucous laughter driving us farther from poolside. The bigger boys and young men tossed balls and Frisbees on the lawn, and someone set up a volleyball net. The girls, in pretty summer dresses like mine, retired to the picnic tables in the shade to sip lemonade and comment on the action.

I could tell by the narrowing of Nolie's eyes and the tightening of Leah's lips that someone unsavory had arrived. A moment later I heard Nancy's too-sweet voice gushing to someone on the patio.

"Well, it was fun while it lasted," sighed Nolie.

Leah said, "I ought to shush you for saying that, but the truth is, I'm in no hurry to call that . . . woman my sister-in-law. I probably shouldn't say this, but I really don't think she's right for Quill."

"That's putting it mildly," Nolie snorted. "She's just about the worst thing that ever happened to him. Have you noticed how anxious he is around her these days?" To me she added, "A year ago, Quill would have been the life of the party: playing ball, teasing the girls, flattering the old ladies, giving rides on his Harley. Now look at him, tethered and hovering like a balloon that's lost half its helium." She shook her head sadly.

I turned in my seat to pick Quill and Nancy out of the throng. It wasn't hard thanks to Quill's height. I saw that Nolie was right. Though Nancy was permitting his arm around her this evening, she moved ahead of him, tugging him along on an invisible string. He wore a polite smile, but his eyes drifted in search of fun.

Quill brightened visibly when he saw us and waved with his free hand. I braced myself, knowing they'd make their way over to us all too soon.

"What do you think, Kielle? Are we wrong?" asked Leah. "You see them together every day on tour. Does she treat him any better at work?"

I thought a minute before replying. "Actually, I don't see them together that much. If I didn't know better, I'd say Nancy avoids Quill except when she's on stage with him or posing on his arm for the fans. He tries to bring her snacks on the bus, tries to talk with her or play a movie she likes, and she just shoos him away. Unless she wants something, of course. Then it's, 'Quilleran, bring me an Evian. No, not a Dasani! You know I can't drink that! What's wrong with you?'"

The other two snickered at my unflattering impersonation. It felt good to vent about my nemesis, but I reminded myself that it was still poor form, both professional and socially. I'd have to cool it.

"Anyway," Leah said, prompting a change of subject as the couple in question approached.

"Hey, Nolie, hey, Leah. Don't you girls just look as pretty as a picture," Nancy trilled. In a noticeably cooler voice she added, "Hello, Kielle. I didn't realize you'd be tagging along again this evening."

I smiled and pretended the barb didn't sting, because I did feel like a tagalong kid sister.

"Maura couldn't abide leaving me behind. Your mother is too generous, Quill." I reached up to squeeze his hand just to piss his fiancée off. It worked. She shifted her weight to position herself between us, forcing him to release his grip.

"I'm glad you're taking a break from work. Have you met everybody? Can I introduce you around?" he asked hopefully.

"Kielle looks like she's been here quite a while already, sugar. I'm sure she's met everyone she needs to." The smile Nancy showed me was not one of sympathy. Quill, as usual, looked uncertain and uncomfortable in the aftermath of one of her swipes at me.

"Sweetie, there's Lois. We really ought to go say hi," she continued, saving him from having to respond. To us she said, "We'll see you later, I'm sure." And she swanned away, towing Quill in her wake. When he glanced back over his shoulder, I blew him a kiss.

"Is it like that every day?" Nolie asked, disbelieving.

Grimly I replied, "Every day."

Leah patted my arm. " Nil illegitimus carborundum," she said—the Latin adage "Don't let the bastards get you down." Startled by her unexpectedly crude yet eloquent language, we all burst out laughing loudly enough to turn a few heads.

Nolie took this as her cue to turn the conversation. "Speaking of bastards, that one keeps sneaking peeks at you, Kielle."

"Nolie!" This time Leah did scold.

I followed Nolie's gaze to where the preppy biker, barefoot now, was flinging a Frisbee overhand and definitely not looking my direction. A closer range, I could see that his hair was curly, light brown streaked blond by the sun, cut brutally short. The middle and ring fingers of his right hand were bound together with white athletic tape, forcing him to catch and throw left-handed.

"Who is that, and is he really a bastard?" I asked.

"Ladies, please!" Leah tried in vain to restore decorum.

"Ben Shea, the bride's brother, and nobody knows for sure," Nolie answered. "Family rumor has it that his mama's husband might not have been his daddy, but they died so long ago, there was never any proof one way or the other." Nolie watched me watch him for a moment. "He's straight and single, if you go for that sort of thing. Nice . . . arms, too," she added as he bent to retrieve a dropped disc.

"Shut up! I did not come here to pick up men. Especially biker bastards."

Leah nodded knowingly. "So you saw him roar up on his Harley in a manly cloud of dust. He's got some tattoos, too, I hear. A real black sheep."

Laughing, Nolie asked, "Has Q forgiven him yet for taking Quill to get his tat?"

"Not hardly."

"Ben and Quill used to ride their cycles together all the time, but I don't think Quill has had his out of the garage since he got engaged," Nolie said sadly.

"The bike is a big no-no with Miss Nancy, and so is wicked cousin Ben," Leah put in for my benefit. "Ben has been pretty frank about not liking her, and the feeling is mutual. She's all but forbidden Quill to speak to him."

"Sounds like my kind of guy," I said.

"Want me to call him over, then? Hey, Benjie!" hollered Nolie.

I lunged to cover her mouth. "Stop!" Fortunately, Shea didn't hear her.

Jocelyn provided a welcome interruption, tugging her mother's sleeve to complain that she was hungry. Leah excused herself to take the girl in search of a towel and a hot dog.

Quin slid into her empty seat, pausing to kiss his wife. He set a Heineken in front of each of us. Taking a pull on his own beer, he looked around and sighed contentedly.

"This is the life," he said, clinking his green bottle against ours.

I could see that he meant it. Family, friends, music and celebration on a warm summer evening—this was indeed the life. His life. An unexpected pang of homesickness kicked me in the gut so hard it hurt. Where were my family, my friends, my parties? I took a long swallow of beer to wash away the lump in my throat.

We sat for a while shooting the breeze, marking small talk with other guests as they drifted by. As dusk began to settle over the lawn, white Christmas lights came on in the trees. The music and the laughter grew louder. I began to think about wandering over the heavily laden buffet tables for some genuine Southern barbecue. My companions agreed, and we rose to make our way toward the feast. We skirted the pool gingerly, wary of slipping in puddles.

"Heads up!" a voice called. I glanced to my left in time to see a Frisbee and a body whizzing toward me.

There was no avoiding the collision, so I relaxed and concentrated on controlling my fall. I grabbed a deep breath and landed in the deep end of the pool with a mighty splash.

I'm at home in the water and knew what to do, but I didn't get a chance to effect any survival tactics beyond kicking off my shoes. A strong arm locked around my torso and propelled me through the surface like a rocket. The same force of nature whisked me to the side of the pool, where men knelt to grasp my hands. I was sitting on the deck before I'd burned through half my lungful of air.

My rescuer levered himself out beside me and without delay began apologizing for having also knocked me in.

It was him, of course.

For a few moments, everybody spoke at once. I waited for the furor to die down before assuring them I was fine.

Ben Shea was having none of it. He ran callused fingers over my scalp searching for signs of injury, squeezed my shoulders, arms and hands, and repeated the process on my legs. I winced when he got to my ankles. A worried murmur went up from the crowd that had gathered. I tried not to roll my eyes at the drama.

"What's wrong? Where are you hurt?" Shea asked urgently.

"I twisted my ankle—must have stepped wrong on the edge of the pool," I admitted. "It's nothing serious. Really. — The right one," I added in response to his questioning look.

Again he said, "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." However, concern did not stop him from making a more thorough inspection of my ankle. Clearly he knew what he was doing—and just where to probe to make me say, "Ow."

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered. "What about here?" He pressed his fingertips firmly beneath my anklebone, causing a pain sharper than I expected. I caught my breath and tapped him twice on the arm. He stopped immediately and interrupted his apologies long enough to diagnose a sprain.

Shea dispatched a gawking boy to his motorcycle with instructions to fetch the duffle from one of his saddlebags. Then he slipped an arm beneath my knees and one behind my shoulders. With my arm around his neck, he rose as if my weight was nothing. The crowd parted so he could deposit me on a nearby chaise lounge. Still crouched beside the chair, he offered his right hand.

"Benjamin Shea. And I'm very, very sorry. I can't tell you how sorry,"

I clasped his hand gently, mindful of the taped fingers I'd noticed earlier.

"Stop apologizing, Ben. It was an accident. I'm not angry, and I'm not even that hurt." I was, however, a bit of a liar. Now that the initial shock had worn off, my ankle had begun to throb.

"That's not true, Kielle. Sprains can be tricky. I can wrap that for you—I have plenty of experience in first aid—but you might want to get it x-rayed. I'll take you to an ER if you like."

On the Harley? I wondered. No, he'd borrow a car. And how had he known my name? I hadn't given it. Well, probably from everyone asking if I was all right.

Someone handed us a couple of gaudy beach towels. Shea draped one around my shoulders and arranged the other across my lap while his own clothes continued to drip on the ground. Quin reappeared—I hadn't seen him leave—with a plastic bag full of ice from the bar. This Shea situated against my foot, then perched on the end of the chaise to hold it in place. The groom's mother promised to round up some dry clothes for us pronto, but Shea replied that he had some of his own on the way.

The errand boy arrived with his duffle bag then. I held the ice while he delved inside it. He came out with a bottle of ibuprofen and shook four into his palm. I caught sight of a neatly folded martial arts gi in the bag as he replaced the bottle.

"Vitamin I," we both murmured as he passed me the capsules.

Suddenly the déjà vu resolved itself in a shock of recognition. I knew who he was.

Shea saw the imaginary light bulb go on above my head. I opened my mouth to exclaim, but his look begged me not to say anything, not yet.

"Thanks," I said instead.

At that moment Quill came bounding up with Quentin close on his heels.

"Kielle! What happened? Are you okay? Somebody said you broke your leg! Are you okay?" he demanded all in a rush.

I caught one of his flapping hands in both of mine. Soothingly I said, "I sprained my ankle, that's all. Ben's going to wrap it up for me and then it'll be fine."

"You didn't—didn't drown or anything?" he asked doubtfully.

I suppressed a laugh and reassured him. "Not at all. I'm a very good swimmer, and besides, Ben had me out of the water in half a second flat."

Quill gradually stopped bouncing. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"So what actually happened?" asked Quentin.

Shea answered him like a soldier delivering a formal report. "It was my fault entirely. I was chasing a Frisbee in the dim light, not watching where I was going, and I knocked Kielle into the pool. She took a bad step on the edge and twisted her ankle. I'm sorry," he said for the hundredth time, but this time he seemed to be apologizing to Q rather than to me.

Quentin regarded him for a long moment. Finally he laid a hand on Shea's shoulder, just for a second. "And you're all right, Ben?"

"Fine," Shea said, appearing surprised that he should ask. No one else had, I noted. Including me.

"And you, Kielle?" Q repeated the offer to take me to a hospital or home or wherever I wanted to go. He didn't quite reach for me, but I scooped up his hand anyway.

"I'm okay, Q, really. No doctor necessary. And dry clothes are on their way." I tried not to notice the way Shea's wet shirt clung to his contours like a fresh coat of paint.

"If you say so." He accepted the bag of ice Shea handed him.

Shea fished a beige elastic bandage out of his bag and made quick work of wrapping my ankle. He was deft and gentle despite the taped fingers jutting out at an awkward angle. The wrap was tight enough to provide support but loose enough to allow circulation. He used a second bandage to loosely tie the ice pack back in place. Now that I knew who he was, I knew where his first aid training came from, and I trusted it.

"There," he said briskly, giving my foot a final pat. "You know the formula: rest, ice, compression, elevation. We'll ice it off and on for the rest of the evening, and I don't want you putting any weight on it at all. If you need something or want to go somewhere, you tell me. No walking. Clear?"

Amused at his bossiness, I said, "Don't be afraid to step up and take charge, Ben."

He flushed but did not back down. "It's good advice. Plus, I'm responsible for you for the moment. Just let me take care of things." He wasn't condescending to me, I noted, he was just completely sure of his authority. I didn't like being told what to do, but I liked the attitude he took to tell me.

"All right then, you're my cabana boy," I agreed.

The clothing arrived then: a lightweight navy sweater, striped palazzo pants to match, and a new pair of underwear with the tags still on. I sighed inwardly with relief. I hadn't wanted to go bare-bottomed in borrowed clothes, but I wanted to wear someone else's used undies even less. This was a perfect solution.

"Let's go change," I said and began to swing my legs over the edge of the lounge. But a pair of strong hands anchored my knees in place.

"No walking!" Shea said sternly.

"Then what are you going to do, c—" I ended with a whoop of surprise as he hoisted me in his arms.

"Yes," he said, starting toward the house. I hoped he didn't catch me inhaling the scent of his neck, a combination of warm skin, chlorine, and a trace of Titanium aftershave that had survived our swim.

He grinned down at me. "Deal with it." I dealt.

Inside the house and out of earshot of the rest of the party, I gave a lopsided hug with the arm around his shoulders.

"Peabody!" I exclaimed.

"Uh, yeah, hi," he sighed. "What gave me away?" He stopped on the tiled kitchen floor to concentrate on our first meeting after the long correspondence. Chagrin was written plain on his rugged face.

"You caught my eye when you arrived, but I couldn't figure out why, knowing we'd never seen each other before. Still, you seemed familiar somehow. But you knew to quit poking me when I tapped, like a martial artist would, and I saw the gi in your bag. And you know the Kellys. The clues added up. It was the 'vitamin I' that did it, though." Calling ibuprofen a vitamin was a joke we'd shared often online.

He sighed again. "This is not how I wanted to meet you in person, if we ever met. I'm really sorry, Kielle."

"If you apologize one more time, I'll make you eat mushrooms." I knew Peabody—Benjamin Shea—hated fungi as much as I did. We shared similar tastes in pizza toppings.

"Sor—I get it," he said, a glint of humor surfacing. "Look, there's a guest room with its own bathroom down this way. We can change in there." Still showing no sign of effort from carrying me, he headed down the hall. I thought unfeminist thoughts about his biceps and the lean belly against my hip.

We found the bedroom door closed. As I reached for the knob, we heard voices from inside, a hyperfeminine giggle and an answering basso chuckle. Clearly a pair of partygoers was taking advantage of the empty house to enjoy a private celebration. We exchanged arch glances and Ben silently reversed course. We ended up in the master suite at the opposite end of the house.

"Could you drop me off in the bathroom?" I asked when he began to set me on the bed. "I need to comb my hair and stuff."

He did as I asked and instructed me to holler if I needed any help. He also informed me that he was going to have my soaked dress cleaned and I was not to argue. I didn't. I knew from debating the tenacious Peabody that I'd have to pick my battles with him carefully, and this wasn't one I cared to undertake. Besides, he owed me.

Changing clothes on one foot wasn't too difficult; my balance was excellent thanks to years of T'ai Chi. The wide-legged pants slipped on easily over my bulky ice-packed extremity. I spared barely a moment's worry over the lack of a bra in my new wardrobe. The loose sweater wouldn't be too revealing, and my modest assets didn't need much support anyway.

It was only as I began to untangle my wrecked French braid that I thought to check my makeup in the mirror. Not a very girly reaction, Kielle, my inner voice chided. But my mascara had not smeared. I gave silent thanks that I'd decided to use the waterproof kind as a defense against humidity-induced smudging. And there wasn't any other makeup to worry about. Relieved, I found a brush in a vanity drawer and brought my hair back to order.

"You okay in there?" Ben tapped on the bathroom door.

"Yep, just finishing up. Come on in."

Ben had changed into faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt from his gear bag. I stared for a moment. I have a weakness for tan men in white shirts, and his fit like a dream.

This was my first look at him from medium distance, and what I saw set off warning bells in my head. The erudite Peabody on whom I'd had an online word-crush turned out to be not just all right in the flesh, but downright hot. I did not need this kind of complication in my life. Nor the speculative regard from his grey-green eyes.

"Ready to go back?" he asked, preparing to pick me up again.

"Yes, but aren't your arms tired?"

"You're not walking. I told you."

"How about piggyback, then?"

He gave in and toted me outside on his back.

Resuming our previous conversation, I murmured in his ear, "I got the impression you recognized me before I did you. True?"

"I did. I'd seen a few photos of you with fans, so I knew what you looked like. I asked around when I suspected I saw you here, and someone confirmed your name. I was still trying to come up with a smooth way to introduce myself when I plowed into you instead. For which I am not apologizing again, but which I deeply regret," he finished.

"You made a hell of a first impression," I assured him.

Wearily he said, "I suppose you're going to blog this."

"Only the relevant parts. I don't suppose names need be mentioned. Unless you want them to be, of course."

"No!"

Ben set me in a lawn chair and pulled up a second one to use as a footrest. He also got me a beer. When I found it to be a screw cap, I passed it back. He twisted the top off and returned it to me without comment, as if that's how we always did it when we had a beer together.

Watch it, girl, I cautioned myself. Don't get too comfortable. You're probably not even going to see him again after today. Stick to the electronic version.

"Were you on your way to get dinner before the splash?" Ben asked. When I nodded, he said, "Sit tight. I'll get you a plate."

Quin's audioblog

[Editor's note: This scene occurs somewhere near the middle of the book. Quin Kelly and Phillip Davis have both suffered semi-serious injuries when a light tree fell on them backstage during intermission at a Praise Caravan concert. Here they're on the bus the next day. Quin, who may have ended up with a skull fracture, has finally agreed with everyone else that he should not perform that night.]

Quin tried not to cry once his decision was made, but his emotions were too close to the surface to prevent it entirely. It took his brothers half an hour to convince him that the show should not go on at the expense of his health. Then they told him how much love the fans were sending via e-mail — I'd granted Quentin temporary reading privileges to Quin's in-box — and he started up again. The snuffling made his headache so much worse that his eyes continued to water even after his sobbing had stopped. Exhausted again, he fell asleep with the other two standing sentry at either end of the couch.

Quin woke puffy-eyed but calmer a couple hours later. He accepted water and ginger ale, but his stomach was still too iffy to consider food. He asked me whether I had yet blogged the announcement that he wouldn't be singing that night.

"I did, yes," I told him. "People were wondering. They've been spamming the boards with questions and debate. I wanted to put a stop to the speculation before it got out of hand."

He sighed. "I feel like I'm letting everyone down, Kielle. I hate it. Phillip's going on tonight, isn't he? I should, too."

"No one thinks you're letting them down. And Phillip's injury is very different from yours. Everybody, the fans included, wants you to rest and feel better. They care what happens to you."

"That's so nice. Our fans are so nice." His eyes threatened to fill again.

"Look," I said, voicing an idea I'd had while he slept, "do you want to do a blog post of your own to tell them how much you appreciate their concern?"

He brightened but sobered again just as quickly. "I'd like to, but I'm just not up to squinting at a screen right now," he said sadly.

"I was thinking of an audioblog. You just talk into the phone for a minute and the sound file posts straight to the web site. No squinting necessary."

He smiled his first real smile since the accident. "You're a genius, Kielle."

"This is true. I have proof," I replied, glad to see his spirits rise a little. "Let me know when you've decided what to say and I'll hook you up."

Ten minutes later, I dialed the login code on my cell phone and handed it over. Quin took it and began to speak, his voice rough with fatigue and pain.

"Hi, everybody. This is Quin Kelly, and this is the only way I'm going to get to talk to you all today. You've probably heard by now that I won't be performing with my brothers at tonight's concert. I'm sorry about that, I truly am, but I just can't. I feel . . . well, I feel about as awful as I ever have, and that's a fact.

"I've got a headache you wouldn't believe. Despite what you may have heard about the hardness of my skull, that post thingy gave me a king-sized concussion. I've also got about a dozen stitches that my hair will cover (unless it decides to start receding like Quentin's). My stomach's upset and I feel wimbly, so the last thing I need, unfortunately, is lights, excitement and noise.

"Ach, the noise! Just thinking about it makes my head hurt worse. I don't just mean the crowd and the band, either. I don't know if you know this" — he lowered his voice conspiratorially — "but my brothers are loud! Especially Quill when he goes for those high notes. Loud! I just can't handle that today.

"So anyway, I just wanted to take a minute to thank you all for the love and prayers you're sending my way. They mean a lot. An awful lot." He quavered for a second but steadied himself.

"Oh, and if you see my brothers tonight, give them an extra hug, will you? They've been wearing themselves out fussing over me, so they deserve it. Kielle too.

"I plan to be back at work tomorrow, Lord willing — and if these folks will let me. I hope to see you soon. Thanks again. Bye now."

Quin pressed the save and post keys I'd shown him and handed the phone back.

"Do you think that was all right? Maybe I should redo it," he said doubtfully.

"It's just fine, sweetie," I assured him. The short speech was Quin in a nutshell, through and through. Even on one of the worst days of his life, he retained his sense of humor and his appreciation and concern for others. I predicted that his simple, heartfelt entry would become one of the most downloaded files on the web site. I was right.