Fannie Flagg - I Still Dream About You

A LSO BY F ANNIE F LAGG

Cant Wait to Get to Heaven

A Redbird Christmas

Standing in the Rainbow

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

Fannie Flaggs Original Whistle Stop Cafe Cookbook

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe

Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man

(originally published as Coming Attractions)

F ANNIE F LAGG is a bestselling author as well as an actress, TV producer, speaker, and performer. Her book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe became a bestseller, as well as a heart-winning major motion picture. Flaggs script for the film was nominated for an Academy Award and a Writers Guild of America Award, and won the highly regarded Scripter Award. Her other bestselling novels include Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man; Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!; Standing in the Rainbow; A Redbird Christmas; and Cant Wait to Get to Heaven. She lives happily in California and Alabama.

T ODAY WAS THE DAY MAGGIE HAD BEEN THINKING ABOUT, OBSESSING about really, for the past five years.

But now that it was actually here, she was surprised at how calm she felt: not at all as she had imagined; certainly not as it would have been portrayed in a novel or in a movie. No heightened emotions. No swelling of background music. No beating of breasts. No nothing. Just the normal end of a perfectly normal workday, if anyone ever could consider the real estate business normal.

That morning, she had gone to the office, worked on newspaper ads for Sundays open houses, negotiated a washer and dryer and an ugly monkey chandelier to be included in the sale price in one of her listings (although why her buyers wanted it was a mystery), and made a few phone calls, but nothing out of the ordinary. She had known for some time it was coming, but she wondered why it happened on this particular day, instead of one last month or even next week? Yet not more than two minutes ago, as she drove past the pink neon Park Lane Florists sign, she suddenly knew this was the day. No bells, no whistles, just the sudden realization of a simple fact. She sat and waited for the red light to change and then turned off Highland Avenue and pulled up to the black wrought iron gates, pushed her gate code, and drove into the large cobblestone courtyard. At first glance, seeing the tall, flickering gas lamps lining the sidewalks and the ivy growing up the sides of the walls, a stranger might have guessed they were in a quaint little mews somewhere in London, instead of in Mountain Brook, just five minutes from downtown Birmingham. Mountain Brook had always looked more English than southern, something that had always surprised her out-of-town buyers, but most of the iron, coal, and steel barons who had settled it had been from either England or Scotland. Crestview, her very favorite house, that stood atop Red Mountain and overlooked the city, had been built by a Scotsman and was an exact replica of a house in Edinburgh.

A few seconds later, she eased the new light blue Mercedes into her parking space, took her purse and keys, and headed up the stairs leading to her townhome. When she got inside and closed the door behind her, thankfully, the loud, jangling five-thirty traffic noises quieted down to a soft muffle. Her building was just one of the many stately old red brick apartment buildings built in the twenties and turned into condominiums in the eighties, when this side of town had gone condo-crazy. Her unit was a well-appointed two-story townhouse in the elegant, high-end enclave known as Avon Terrace and was kept immaculate at all times. The dark brown parquet floors were polished and shined, rugs vacuumed, kitchen and bathrooms gleaming and spotless. They had to be. She was the listing agent for the entire complex, and her unit was the model other realtors showed to potential buyers. Today, she didnt stop to check the mail in the silver dish on the small table in the foyer, as she usually did, but walked straight through to the small den off the living room and sat down at her desk.

She knew it must be written by hand. Something like this typed up on the computer would be far too impersonal and certainly not in good taste. She opened the right-hand top drawer and pulled out a small box of monogrammed stationery containing ten sheets of thin blue paper with matching blue envelopes. She took out a few pages and one envelope, then reached across the desk and fingered through a bunch of pens she kept in a brown leather penholder with gold embossing, searching for something to write with. As she continued to test one cheap plastic pen after another, she wished she had kept at least one good fountain pen and that bottle of maroon Montblanc ink she had saved for years. Every one of her old black felt pens had dried up, and now she would have to use the only thing she had left that still worked. She stared at it and sighed. Life was so odd. Never in a million years could she have imagined that she would wind up writing something as vitally important as this on ten-year-old stationery with a fat, bright red ballpoint pen with silver sparkles that had Eds Crab Shack: Featuring the Best Crab Cakes in Town written on the side.

Good Lord. She had never been to Eds Crab Shack in her life. Oh, well. Nothing to be done now. She carefully dated the upper right-hand side of the page with tomorrows date, then took a moment to think about exactly what she wanted to say and how best to say it. She wanted to strike just the perfect tone: not too formal, yet not too casual. Businesslike, but personal. After reviewing the specific points she wanted to make, she began:

To Whom It May Concern,

Good morning, or afternoon, whatever the case may be. When you read this, I will be gone for good. The reasons for my action are varied and many. In the past, I have always strived to be someone my state could be proud of, but I feel that my leaving at this particular time will not cause as much attention as it once might have.

On a personal level, as I do not wish to upset my friends or co-workers or cause anyone undue stress, this letter is to inform you that I have already made all the necessary final arrangements, so please do not worry about finding me, and I apologize in advance for any inconvenience this may cause. But please be assured that although I

The phone inside her purse on the floor suddenly started ringing to the tune of Im Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover. Still concentrating on her letter, she reached down with one hand, rummaged through the purse, and finally dug the phone out and answered it. It was Brenda from work, all excited.

Have you seen the paper yet?

No, not yet. Why?

Guess what? The Whirling Dervishes are coming to Birmingham!

The who? asked Maggie, not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to lose her train of thought.

The Whirling Dervishes from Turkey! The men with the tall cone hats and long skirts that twirl around in a circle. Theres a picture of them in todays Entertainment section.

Really? The real ones?

Yes, the real ones! And theyre coming to the Alabama Theatre for a one-night-only performance. The Chanting Monks from China or Tibet or somewhere had to cancel, and they got the Dervishes to fill in at the last minute.

Well, that was lucky.

And guess what else? I can get us two free tickets from Cecil. Arent you just dying to see them?

When are they coming? Maggie asked, still trying to concentrate on her letter.

November the second. Look at your calendar.