Shine - Lauren Myracle [104]
B-O-B spells Bob, and it also spells Best Official Buddy-System, if you pretend that Buddy-System is one word. Love ya, Bob. You look very stylish in your leopard print thong, by the way.
To my agent, Barry Goldblatt: I think it is often the case that we authors don’t have a CLUE how much you agent-types do for us. I know that’s true in my case. For all the things I’ve thanked you for, thank you again. For all the things I haven’t thought to thank you for, or haven’t known to thank you for, please accept my heartfelt thanks now. You da real deal, Care Bear.
Jason Wells, aka the Energizer Bunny. Oh, sweet Jason, this book would not exist if not for you. It simply wouldn’t, and you and I both know it. Thank you for our road trip talk that day when we could not and could not find the book warehouse. Ideas spring from marvelous sources, and you, yourself, are a marvel.
Sarah Mlynowski and Ermengarde Lockhart (oh dear, did I out you?): I have told you this before, but I must tell you again. You two do not lie when it comes to giving me feedback on my novels. Instead you are quite straightforward in telling me what sucks . . . but then you tell me how to fix it! And the angels sing from on high, and y’all are the angels, and yes, SM, you can be a Jewish angel, ‘Kay? ‘kay. Without y’all, I would be a sad, shriveled version of myself, so thank you for not making me need Botox. Your friendship—and your generously shared writing expertise—make me a very happy Lauren.
To my big ol’ sprawling family, which is a glorious mishmash of conservatives, evangelical Christians, Jewish wine enthusiasts, veggie-chewy enforcers, computer geeks, bleeding heart Susans liberals, dog people, cat people, baseball players, and food-and-book lovers: Y’all are mine, and I am y’all’s. I hug you all.
To my parents, all four of you: holy creamed corn, I am blessed beyond measure to have y’all in my life:
Sarah Lee, you taught me about making jam and how long to soak green beans, two skills I’ll never use in real life as there is plenty of delicioso jam out there already, and because green beans are nasty (as are big hunks of fatback, even if they supposedly make the beans more flavorful). The knowledge you shared helped me flesh out Cat’s day-by-day reality. Thank you.
Dad? As in, my North Carolina I-sprang-from-your-loins Dad? Omigosh. You are so . . . I am just . . . ai-yai-yai. Can’t even find the words to express how much I appreciate your help with this book. Black Creek is not the North Carolina town you live in, nor is the town I grew up in. Nonetheless, you answered every single one of my questions in your characteristically meticulous way. You told me about Spanish rifles. You told me about rusty cars and antique dirt bikes rebuilt from the frame up. You told me about moonshine (!!!) and backwoods potions and mongrel dogs that guard the trailers hidden deep in the woods. You also told me about beautiful things: breaking ivy, the way moss looks on a water-soaked log, the way the air smells when a storm is coming on. Thank you for my “hill girl” childhood. I love you.
To my Atlanta Dad: You taught me that family isn’t defined by blood. It’s defined by love. You embrace me as your daughter as wholeheartedly as Mama Sweetie welcomes Cat into her warm and open arms. The fact that you’re proud of me—and that you tell me so—makes my heart swell. Children never stop needing their parents; I wish Cat had been as lucky as I am.
Mom, you told me when I was little that I had a light inside of me. Do you remember? You told all of us kids that, I’m sure, but as a seven-year-old, I listened, and I believed, and the faith in myself that you inspired helped that light burn bright. You are the best mom in the world, and I want to be just like you when I grow up. And—as if that wasn’t enough—thanks for reading this novel again and again and again, helping me make it better each time.
Jack, Al, Jamie, and Mirabelle