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Wish You Well

By:David Baldacci

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