After struggling for years to make it as an actress, Harper finally gets her big break—but will she have to sacrifice the love of her life to take it? Sometimes the person farthest away from you is the one closest to your heart . . .      At thirty, Harper fears her chances for a thriving career and tru love are both fading fast.  But when Harper is offered an unexpected role in a Broadway play - as understudy to New York's biggest diva-she wonders if everything is about to change.       Hoping to find love in NYC, Harper reluctantly signs up for an online dating site-but the only match Harper is even remotely interested in lives thousands of miles away.  An actress who doesn't act, searching for love with someone she's never seen, Harper longs for God to show her He's still listening.       Through the contemporary text-message world of Internet dating, Harper learns it's possible to care for someone outside her own universe.  And as she reaches out through the impersonal world of cyberspace, she becomes more aware than ever of god reaching out to her . . .      Chris Coppernoll has authored six books, including A Beautiful Fall and Providence .  A national speaker to singles, Chris is also the founder of Soul2Soul, a syndicated radio program airing on eight hundred outlets in twenty countries.  Chris holds a master's degree from Rocbridge Seminary and resides outside Nasvhville, Tennessee with his wife.   Screen Play A Novel By Chris Coppernoll David C. Cook Copyright © 2010 Chris Coppernoll All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4347-6482-9 CHAPTER 1 I absolutely had to be in New York by 1:30 p.m. Did my life depend upon it? Yes, as a matter of fact, it did. Just the thought of calling Ben or Avril with bad news from O'Hare churned my stomach and made my face prickle with a dizzying fear. I joined a sea of travelers bundled in parkas, hoods, hats, and gloves; they stretched out in front of me, pressing in and wresting me through a queue of red velvet theater ropes. All of Chicago wanted to flee the blizzard they'd awakened to. Sometime after midnight the sky exploded with snowflakes. Icy white parachutists fell from their celestial perch as innocently as doves. The year's last snowstorm tucked the city in with a white blanket knitted through the long winter's night. When I reached the American Airlines check-in, I hoisted one of my two black canvas bags onto the scale for the ticket agent. "Harper Gray?" she asked, confirming my reservation. "Yes." She returned my driver's license, dropping her gaze to the workstation and tapping my information into the system. At the kiosk next to me, a large Texan with a silver rodeo buckle typed on his iPhone with his thumbs, mumbling something about checking the weather in Dallas. Computers , I thought. What don't we use them for? It was obvious how many of my fellow travelers were heading somewhere for the New Year's Eve festivities. I couldn't help but eavesdrop on a cluster of merry college students reveling in their Christmas break. They joked and chattered, mentioning Times Square, unbothered by long lines or the imminent threat of weather delays. At thirty, almost thirty-one, I could no longer relate to their carefree lifestyle. Too much water under the bridge, most of it dark and all of it numbing. "Here you are," the ticket agent said, handing me a boarding pass still warm from the printer. I fumbled with my things, stuffing my photo ID into my wallet as a mother and her young son squeezed in next to me. The crowd current swept me away from the ticket counter, denying me a chance to ask the agent the one question I most wanted answered. Is anyone flying out of here this morning? I rolled my carry-on through the main concourse. I'd used the small black Samsonite for so many trips, I thought the airlines should paste labels on it like an old vaudevillian's steamer trunk. A row of display monitors hung from a galvanized pipe, cobalt blue icicles glowing all the brighter in the dark and windowless hallway. I joined a beleaguered crowd of gawkers studying the departure screens. Their collective moans of frustration confirmed what I already knew. My flight—indeed, all flights out of O'Hare—was: DELAYED I pinched my eyes shut. This was not what I needed. Not today, not today of all days. I absolutely had to be in New York by 1:30 p.m. Did my life depend upon it? Yes, as a matter of fact, it did. CHAPTER 2 When my travel alarm jolted me from dead slumber that morning, I'd climbed out of my warm bed and stepped into a cold shower, after which I pulled on jeans in a dimly lit two-bedroom apartment. The walls were bare, stripped of framed artwork, curio shelves, and knickknacks. The kitchen was cleared of dishes, pots, pans, and silver. The last piece of cozy furniture, my double bed and headboard, remained only because my landlady said she'd take possession of it after I was gone. I'd booked the 6:05 a.m. direct flight to LaGuardia the