Christmas at the Hummingbird House Read Online Free PDF

movie.  Besides, thank her for what?  She hadn’t sold a single copy of his book, although why that should surprise him he didn’t know.  The last things bookstores were interested in selling these days were books.
    He pulled on his coat and gloves and he and Bobbie pushed out into the dull gray light of a crowded mall parking lot just outside of Little Rock, Arkansas.  Bobbie snatched a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her stylish black leather coat and lit up almost before the door closed behind them.
    “You’re the last person in America who still smokes,” he observed.
    She blew out a long satisfied stream of gray smoke. “At least I’ll be remembered for something.”
    He shot her a dark look and she patted his arm in casual reassurance.  “Not that you’re not enough to be remembered for, darling.  After all, thirty-six weeks on the Times list is nothing to be sneezed at.”
    “That was six years ago.”
    “Well.”  She inhaled deeply and blew out smoke.  “There’s that.”
    He nodded toward the coffee kiosk that was arranged beneath a cluster of naked Japanese maples strung with white lights just outside the entrance to J.C. Penny, and they turned their steps in that direction.  “So let’s have it,” he said.  “You didn’t come all the way out here just to listen to that speech again.”
    Bobbie Banks had been Geoffery’s representative at the prestigious Leeman Literary Agency for over ten years.  In the beginning, she had been there to help kick off every book tour and personal appearance, and had made it a point to be in the audience when he appeared on Oprah or Regis and Kelly. And why shouldn’t she have been?  He was making her—not to mention the agency—a fortune.  These days he was lucky to get her on the phone once or twice a year, and he knew for a fact that the only reason she had been at the reading today was because she was in town for the same writer’s conference he was.  He had been invited to be on a panel about writing non-fiction; she was scouting for new clients.
    They took two paper cups of coffee and sat on an iron bench beneath the display of white lights.  A gaggle of teenage girls in boots and colorful striped scarves walked past, giggling and texting and sharing Instagram photos on their phones.  Bobbie blew out a last stream of smoke and stubbed out the cigarette on the side of the bench.  “It’s not that I didn’t try, darling, you know that.  But the publisher has decided not to go with the second Miracle book.  You surely can’t be surprised.  They feel the material has run its course and the audience just isn’t what it used to be.  The entire book industry isn’t what it used to be, you know that.  Hell, I ’ m not what I used to be.”
    Geoffery sipped his coffee and said nothing.  Bobbie lit another cigarette.
    “What I need from you,” she said, blowing out smoke, “is something new, fresh, dynamic. Something I can get excited about. I mean, this stuff was hot back in oh-nine when the country was in a nosedive and everybody was running scared, but we’ve moved on since then.  Do you know what I mean?”
    He nodded slowly, taking another sip of his coffee.  “It’s a lot easier to sell hope during a recession.”
    “Precisely! But we’re all driving new cars now, everybody’s back to work, and nobody’s interested in that sentimental drivel these days.”  She cast a quick look at him.  “Sorry, darling, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.  You know what I mean.”
    He gave a small grunt of mirthless laughter.  “Of course I do.  I’m the one who has to read that sentimental drivel to old ladies in the backs of bookstores and blog about that sentimental drivel three times a week and talk about that sentimental drivel ad nauseum every time somebody asks me out to dinner.  And I’ll tell you something else.”  He drank from his cup.  “There was no damn angel at the Twin Towers.”
    She nodded her