![]() ![]() Jonas had been rushed to a store on Park Avenue, measured, then taken to an old-fashioned barbershop where a hunched Italian man who’d earned his barber’s license in 1967 shaved him and cut his hair. He was wearing cufflinks for the first time and didn’t like the way they made the cuffs hang loose over his wrists. The black leather shoes were new and uncomfortable, and his collar itched after the big guy who picked him up from school knotted his tie too tightly. “-do you think she’ll do now? Go back to work?” Tatters of muted conversation floated up from the crowd. Jonas stood stiffly by his mother’s side at the end of the aisle, resisting the urge to tug on his collar or shuffle his feet. Who told me what she really thought of my characters and made me write a better book. ![]() To my patient, earnest, talented, and occasionally blunt muse of a wife, ![]()
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