The tomato sucker is a cluster of small tender leaves that sprouts from the throat of branches on a mature tomato plant.

A tomato sucker is Larry Ashmead for any book about tomatoes. If you don’t believe me, just look back over his list of published books. (Larry would miss his own mama’s funeral to get his tomato plants in the ground following last frost.)

And cats—Larry is a sucker for cats. Again, look at his publishing record, and also see my Larry the Cat character in LIKE A SISTER.

And parties: father to his crib of authors, Larry throws lavish parties for them at book fairs. In Mobile, Alabama, at SEBA, drunk on The Pillars’ best wine, we sang “Amazing Grace,” led by Larry’s buddy Celestine Sibley. Larry proved he was no pushover by denying a demand for seating on the right hand of a puffed-up author. Larry dined at the next table, delighting the sales reps, who adore him (I’ve personally seen how the reps push his books at stores). Come midnight, at The Pillars, Larry delivered greetings from us all to the sullen author sitting alone at the end of our long table. We never knew what Larry said to him, but we figured his remarks wouldn’t be found in the lyrics of “Amazing Grace.”

Larry’s a sucker for gifts: Over the years he has sent me rare postage stamps, and simply stamps he knew I’d think were pretty; he has sent me packets of flower seeds from France and London. He sent a little black wooden cat on wheels one Halloween—I named it “Scary Larry.” He sent me a round box made from orange peels that he just happened to come across at the Museum of Natural History. He’s sent books on every subject, from Miami architecture to the literary classic, A THOUSAND ACRES, by Jane Smiley. He sends flowers and fruit—one, an Ashmead apple, crisp, green and tart. My favorite because of its namesake (if Larry didn’t name it, I don’t want to know). He sent me a writer’s journal and a do-not-disturb sign for my office door, which reads “Novel in Progress.”

Larry’s a sucker for friendship. His swollen Rolodex of friends’ names and addresses has sent more assistants walking than I can recall over the decade that I’ve been with him. They couldn’t keep up with his contacts.

I’ve signed books in many cities where Larry’s friends have shown up, just to say “Hi!” and bought books they probably didn’t even like. Just for Larry.

Larry’s not afraid of a few extra calories, and he’s not afraid to laugh. I love a man who takes up some space, and I’m a fool for his “End of the Year Funnies.”

Everybody loves Larry, but none so much as this writer who nobody would take a chance on some ten-odd years and seven books ago.

I will miss you, Larry. I will miss your bright voice on the phone in the mornings, telling me you “love” my latest novel. I know you know that the proper word for objects is “like,” and the word “love” is to be saved for people. You never like anything; it’s either dislike or love.

Oh, yes, Larry is a sucker for love. Larry is love.