by Wally Duff
"It's hard to find someone to have a permanent relationship with," Ms. Weissler says. Across the circle, Melissa Kane, age 30, is just beginning to realize this. She spends most of the class rocking a fussy Anna. After quitting her public-relations job, "I'm just starting to branch out," Ms. Kane says.
After class, in the snack room, Ms. Weissler and Ms. Kane discover they live near one another. "We should get together sometime," Ms. Kane says. Two weeks later, the two plop down next to each other in the circle, talking about travel plans.
But they still haven't taken it to the next stage: meeting outside of class. Ms. Weissler had better hustle; Ms. Kane is already planning lunch with a couple of women from one of Anna's other classes.
Acknowledgements:
One of the several published authors who read this first book of the Hamlin Park Irregulars series was kind enough to email me: writing a novel is HARD! Man, she nailed it. Thanks to Shannon Baker for this and the suggestions.
Nancy Taylor Rosenberg began like I did, with no formal training, only a burning desire to tell a story. And because of her enormous talent, she went on to being a New York Times best-selling author. Without her encouragement and advice, I probably wouldn’t have continued writing.
The unrelated Taylor girls: S.J. and Katherine. Both of you have advanced literary degrees, and I was terrified when you read this book. Your comments and suggestions were enormously helpful, and you never laughed at my effort.
And finally, Rich Krevolin. He has been everything for me in writing this book, and I couldn’t have finished it without him.
Now, quickly, on to friends and patients who have read the book. TNTC — too numerous to count — thanks to all of you.
And, family. Thanks to: Jeffrey Taylor; James E. Duff; Julia Morrison; Brittany Haynie; and Luke Haynie.
A special shout out to Christina Duff Taylor. Thanks for being “Tina” in the book. Without you, there is no book.
And to the three women in my life who have contributed more than they will ever know: Ann, Suzy, and Mindy.
And to Nancy Cohen who corrected the grammar in this book: you are the best. But I gotta tell you, I hate all the freaking commas!
Let me know what you think about this book. Contact me at www.HamlinParkIrregulars.com.
The next book, Déjà Boom, continues with the Hannah and Micah story, but there is that mysterious leprechaun guy too. After that, I jump into medical issues in the next two novels. Then, a little change to a love story/thriller involving baseball and medicine. And in the last one, check out the last name on the wall: Air Force 2nd Lt. Richard Van De Geer. It’s my first venture into a piece of history of the Vietnam War researched by the Hamlin Park Irregulars.
And finally…
Here’s a free sneak peek at the first two chapters of Déjà Boom, the next book in the Hamlin Park Irregulars series:
Déjà Boom
1
“When were you going to tell me?” I asked. I was furious, and I’d held my anger in as long as I could.
My husband, Carter Thomas, had consumed way more than his share of wine at the Saturday night dinner party we’d just left, so I drove our mommy van home. We had traveled one block before I’d lost it.
“Tell you what?” Carter asked.
“About the bombing of an abortion clinic in our freaking neighborhood!”
“It was not in our, as you call it, ‘freaking neighborhood.’ ”
That stopped me. “It wasn’t?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Something’s not right.
“Then why were you and Jason discussing it?”
Carter is an assistant managing editor for local news at the Chicago Tribune. Jason Buss is a reporter under Carter’s command. We had been at their home for dinner.
“It’s late, and I’m tired. We can talk about this in the morning.”
I slammed on the brakes. “Where was the clinic located?”
Cars behind us began honking, but I wasn’t moving until he told me what I wanted to know.
“In Deerfield.”
“Deerfield? You didn’t think I would be interested in hearing about a bombing…” I took a deep breath, “…thirty minutes from our front door?”
“Tina, please, the people stuck behind us aren’t part of this.”
The car horns blared, but I didn’t care. “Do the police know who did it?”
He shook his head.
“Was it the same M.O.?”
“Yes, it was. The bomb was in the men’s bathroom.”
I powered down the driver’s window and threw up.
Déjà Boom
2
Carter and I live with our two-year-old daughter, Kerry, in West Lakeview, an upscale North Chicago neighborhood. Our home is a three-story, all floors above the ground home at 1702 West Melrose. Our two-car detached garage faces the cross street, North Paulina.
When I pulled into the garage, I was still pissed off. I didn’t speak to Carter until I’d put Kerry down for the night and he’d returned from walking the babysitter to her home across the street.
We were in bed and the lights were out.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“I knew how you would react, and I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly enjoyable evening with our friends.”
“So, now you can read my mind? Couldn’t you at least have had the common decency to let me voice my own opinion without doing it for me?”
“But you still would have acted the same way.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
He took me into his arms. I could smell the faint odor of the Tom Ford black orchid cologne I’d given him for his birthday.
“I’m afraid you’ll want to pursue this story,” he whispered. “I love you so much. I can’t stand the thought of you being involved with a bombing again.”
Bomb!
In the darkness of our bedroom, that word thrust me back into the hallway of the Arlington clinic. I knew what was coming next: a PTSD attack. First, there would be a blinding flash of light behind my eyes, followed by the sound of an explosion and the smell of broken medical bottles, cleaning solvents, and burned hair and skin.
And then, a pounding headache.
I took in a deep breath to center myself and let the headache pass. It was over in less than a minute.
“Okay, I might have overreacted a little,” I said. “Honestly, I’m petrified that this is the same guy who blew me up.”
“And if it is? That fear should be enough to convince you not to work on this.”
“Carter, that monster almost killed me. I will never forget that.”
“I understand, but why not let another reporter assume the risk?”
“It’s my story. That will never happen.”
“Tina, please. It’s too dangerous.”
The “D” word, again.
My husband is consistent when we have arguments like this. My response is always the same.
“I was the one who was blown up. This will be my decision and my decision alone.”
“Even if I totally disagree?”
I desperately wanted to snuggle into his arms. I needed the man I love to hold me and help me forget that terrible night five years ago when I almost died.
“This discussion is over,” I said. “Goodnight.”
I rolled away from him.
No one is going to finish that story but me.