by Kolbet, Dan
Amelia dug her toes into the warm sand in front of Nate's cabin, which she now considered her own cabin too. The hot August sun blazed overhead. Nate was to her left, pounding a beach umbrella into the sand for shade. Unlike the summer two years ago, Amelia didn't have weeks and weeks to soak up the sun. In fact today was just the first full day she'd made it to the cabin all summer.
She handed Nate a bottle of sunscreen and turned her back toward him.
"You need this sun block pretty bad," he said. "You'll get fried out here."
"There's not a lot of sun indoors," she said.
"No, I suppose not."
The plan this summer was similar to last. Reconnect. Except this time the gap between Amelia and her children was smaller. Throughout the past two years, as she worked to run the new company, she attended school functions for the kids and limited her out of town travel, even as Mr. Z's Toys, Inc., took on building rehab projects across the country. She hired good people to manage the work and focused herself on customers and community relations.
Amelia and Nate also had additional members of their expanded family to reconnect with, although they were far from distant. Chloe was spending the summer at Amelia and Nate's house in Spokane before heading off to college in the fall. They had gotten the chance to spend a lot of time together, which was nice. Chloe and Susanna continued to strengthen their bond from their previous stay at the lake. Nate enjoyed having all "his girls" in one place too.
Today Susanna and Chloe were lying on towels on the dock. They were tanning, but also recounting their adventure tubing behind the boat that morning. Nate had steered the boat into a wake and launched the girls high in the air to the terrified wail of Amelia. The girls loved it and asked to do it again. So they did it again. And again.
"Hey, Mom!" Marcus called from the deck above. "Did you pack the barbecue sauce?"
"It's in the garage fridge," she replied.
Marcus had volunteered to make dinner tonight, with assistance from his girlfriend, Denny. Marcus delayed his enrollment in school after donating the kidney to Nate. He needed time to recover and was doing well. Nate had of course argued against the donation, but that was just his style. He didn't want anyone to risk themselves for his sake. But Chloe and Amelia convinced him that it was the best course of action. It was Amelia's opinion that really turned the tide. If she was willing to accept the risk to Marcus, then Nate would have to as well.
But it went unsaid that Marcus needed it too. It was his way of giving back and moving on from the tragedy at Rocktop Lake so many years earlier. The debt was now paid.
Nate's dialysis continued three to five times a week and he had monthly check ups with an oncologist and a kidney specialist. So far so good. The cancer had not returned and the new kidney was functioning as it should. It couldn’t have turned out better.
Nate finished putting the sun block on Amelia's back.
"Do you want me to do your back too?" she asked.
"No, I'm OK," he said. "I've got to head up and get on that conference call with the distributor in Mexico. We need that merchandise for the grand re-openings in Los Angeles and San Francisco. I'm afraid they aren't going to make it in time."
"They're going to be great events, just like the others," she said. "But make it quick. What was our agreement?"
"I know, Boss, only 30 minutes of work a day, tops," he said. "Maximize our down time, then back to the grind next week."
"This deal works in my favor too," she said. "It means I get more of you to myself this week."
She leaned over and kissed him. She put her left hand on his cheek and couldn't help but admire the large diamond on her ring finger.
"Just this week? How about for the rest of our lives?"
He kissed her again.
"I'll take that deal too," Amelia said.
She surveyed the scene in front of her. She was happy. Her family was happy. There was nothing more she could ever ask for.
Acknowledgments
None of my novels are mine alone. They are a collective work of my words taken from the knowledge and inspiration of others. I couldn't have written this story without a lot of help. Better Not Love Me was written in response to so many readers asking me, after reading Don't Wait For Me, "what happens next?" I had sketched the broad strokes of this companion story years ago, so I knew the answer, but I was the only one. I hope Better Not Love Me provided the answers my readers were looking for. Amelia got the love she deserved. Marcus pulled himself out of the darkness. Mr. Z's lives on the way it was intended.
I'd like to first acknowledge my beta readers. I keep coming back to them time and again. It's a skill to review a work in draft stage, point out errors and issues, and still enjoy the story. These women are top notch. Thanks Jessie Wuerst, Barb Kolbet-Snyder and Brandi Smith.
Karen Caton has served as my editor from the beginning. I will never show anyone, but the little explanatory notes she leaves for me during the copyedit are much more entertaining and informative than anything I could ever write. Karen, thank you. Any errors that remain in this story are mine alone. And let's be honest, if you found an error, you probably want to tell me. Please do. Email me at [email protected]. I can always fix the ebook version. I'd be happy to add your name to the contributors list if you find a good one.
If anyone tells you that writing a book is easy, they're full of baloney. Or they've never done it. It's not easy. It's emotional and draining. There are times when it's thrilling, sure, but there are also long stretches when you think you're never going to get it right. I want to thank Kellie Barden for keeping me positive. Encouragement should never be underestimated. Kellie was the first person to hear the full story of Better Not Love Me. Telling her made the story real. Kellie withstood endless questioning from me about types of cancer and chemotherapy. I hope I got most of it right. If I didn’t, that's on me.
Thank you as well to Jeanne Leaf and her friend and Transplant Coordinator, Lynn Seehorn who provided insight into organ transplants and how transplant boards work. Thankfully this is fiction, so the miraculous is possible. This also means I can bend the truth to my heart's content!
A few of my friends made it into the story. The characters and the person they were named for typically share little else save for the name. Dr. Clinton Munson was named in honor of my friend Adam Munson. Adam's not a doctor, but I'm sure he could play one on TV. Josh DiLuciano actually appeared twice, sort of. Amelia's ex-husband Josh was named for my friend way back in Don't Wait For Me. This time out, his last name was the lead in the Austin-based investment firm, DiLuciano, Dempsey and Leaf. The Leaf in this title was selected to recognize several members of my family. Marcus, named in the earlier book was a tip of the cap to my Uncle Marc Flemming.
I'd like to thank my followers at www.facebook.com/dankolbetbooks. Several times I asked questions of the group, and I really did listen to their opinions. An example was the question about love at first sight, which is what Nate had for Amelia when they first met in the toy store. He blew it by pushing her away, but nonetheless, it existed. My followers were split on whether this sort of phenomena was possible. I also asked for advice from those who had ridden the Route of the Hiawatha bike trail. None of them described the steamy scene that played out between Amelia and Nate, but I have little doubt such things have occurred on this isolated path. I used several ideas from my followers to set the general scene and make it feel real.
Religion is a touchy subject, but I'd like to briefly address it here. Pastor Isakson is a secondary character in this book, but plays a much more prominent role in the earlier story. His view on religion is that being a good person and helping others is one of the best ways to express one's faith. Cousin Max tells us that he's guided by God's plan. It comforts him and helps guide him on his path. Marcus questions why God chose to save him and not Edwin. The occasional mention of religion or beliefs is meant to help readers find their place in the overall story, not hit anyone over the head with doctrine
. A few years back I was asked to attend a book club that had just finished Don't Wait For Me. I did a Q&A for nearly an hour and enjoyed every second of it. Near the end of the night a woman was casually chatting with me about the book, but making references to the appearance of the Holy Spirit and what she was reading between the lines in regards to Christianity. I was honored that I painted a picture that she could finish. I've since come to believe that readers get to assign meaning as they see fit, I just get to host the conversation.
To conclude, I'd like to make one request of you, the reader—please review this book online. As an independent author, I rely on word of mouth to publicize my work. There is no better validation for an author's work than a third-party review. Please review it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, CreateSpace, Goodreads, Smashwords, iBooks or wherever you purchased it. It really does matter and I would truly appreciate it.
Thank you.
About The Author
Dan Kolbet lives in Spokane, Washington, with his family. He is an independent author, former newspaper editor and reporter. He is currently working on his next story.
You can find Kolbet's web page at www.dankolbet.com or like his author page on Facebook www.facebook.com/DanKolbetBooks.
Other Books by Dan Kolbet
Off The Grid (2011)
Don't Wait For Me (2012)
You Only Get So Much (2014)
Free Preview Chapter
You Only Get So Much
When Billy Redmond returns to his hometown to attend his brother's funeral, he's hoping for a quick trip. No reason to stay for more than a few hours. He's been in self-imposed exile from his family after a tragedy 12 years ago. It's better this way. He can't harm people he never sees.
Billy soon finds that his family isn't better off without him, in fact he's the only one who can help them. Billy is forced to fight through his tormented past to make a better future for those he loves. He is guided on this journey by a woman from his past, who he quickly realizes was the one who got away.
For Billy, it's more than a second chance, it's his last chance to get it right.
You Only Get So Much
Chapter 1
Spokane, Washington
I lean against the front bumper of my 1974 Ford pickup in the small parking lot of the funeral home, ignoring the mud and bugs collected on the bumper and how they might soil my only pair of suit pants. Three days earlier I hadn't remembered I actually still had suit pants. I'd assumed that the suffocating corporate uniform of my past had not followed me in my isolation, but in the back of the cedar-lined closet of my drafty lake cabin I had found a charcoal gray Hilfiger suit with a herringbone weave. The box it was kept in had been packed by someone else. Thus had I not gone looking for it; it may have been left undiscovered for years to come. I don't have much cause to wear such things.
I tug on the uncomfortable pants and feel them wiggle and slip down. My frame has leaned out considerably since I last had to wear the suit, ironically at another funeral more than 12 years prior. Today I'm also wearing a new black belt that I purchased two days ago at a small hardware store in White Fish, Montana, the closest city to my current home in the mountains. I'd gotten the usual stares from the townspeople as I walked through town in my jeans and boots, my long brown beard hanging over my flannel shirt. I blended in, sure, but they knew me. Billy Redmond, the author. The guy who used to be a big deal. The guy who certainly wasn't anymore.
Montana had its fair share of hermits even before my time there. Best known, of course was Unabomber Ted Kaczynski, who, beyond being a murderous bastard, gave Montana isolationists like me a bad name. It's not like we had a club or secret handshake or anything. We didn't chat on the phone. That would defeat the purpose. I just wanted to be alone and for the last 12 years I'd managed that feat without much trouble. When "that Billy guy" came to town, people stayed away. Maybe it was out of fear. People in the woods of Montana were bound to be packing heat or concealing an oversized hunting knife, right? No question about that. So it was smart to keep your distance from me or people who looked like me, they thought. But I'm harmless. I just want to be alone.
Or maybe these people stayed away because I wasn't all that interesting anyhow. I was no one special, at least not anymore. There was a time when I was on top of the world. Private jets. Meetings in Hollywood. Long lunches with important people. Magazine covers. Well, one magazine cover. A movie deal for my novel. I was "the man" for a short time.
Until I wasn't. And I certainly wasn't anymore.
I did find it troubling over the years when strangers, looking for a handout, would ignore the "No Trespassing" signs, the locked gate, and hike in more than a mile just to knock on my door. The cabin wasn't exactly hidden—in that sense I wasn't Kaczynski. I built the place so I could write alone. Write something. Anything good, but apparently lightning really doesn't strike twice because I don't have anything to show for it. At least nothing that you'll ever see.
I'd be polite to the intruders who would knock on my door, but I wouldn't cut them a check. I didn't have anything for them. It was gone—all of it. The payday for Isolated Highway—my first and only novel—and the failed movie deal were no more. But they still thought I had it squirreled away somewhere. I once had enough cash for two lifetimes, but today I barely had enough for one. My nest egg was non-existent. I'd even started searching for a job, but not very hard. What was I qualified for anyway?
When the intruders would come, it wasn't the reminder of my failures that bothered me. I didn't need help in that department. It was the intrusion that I disliked, the human interaction that I desperately wanted to avoid. Why can't I just be left alone?
So, today leaning against the dirty bumper of my old rusty pickup truck at the funeral home parking lot in my hometown of Spokane, Washington, I'm fighting off the painful urge to climb back into the cab and drive straight back to my little cabin in the mountains, two states away, never to be seen again. Unless somebody knocks on my door. Assuming I'd answer it.
No one expects me to be at this funeral anyway. My family hadn't called me. They'd given up trying to reach me years ago. And I was glad for that because you can't hurt people who can't find you. Or at least I once thought this was true, but you'll have to stick with me a bit longer to learn more about that.
* * *
Bass and Dodge Funeral Home has a white and tan exterior. If you didn't see the cheesy sign in the parking lot, it's a fair assumption that the place is a church. The stained-glass windows are overkill. But I was probably the only one looking at the windows. The building sat immediately outside the gates of Fairwood Cemetery, a convenient location if there ever was one. I imagined the conversation between loved ones trying to bury their dead grandpa or uncle. Let's make sure we don't have to drive too far between the service and the grave, they'd say. God forbid they might have to spend a few extra minutes remembering someone's life. It made me sick.
To the north of the building is a huge dirt parking lot. Not for the hordes of mourners that were expected to flood the funeral home, but for the local football stadium that looms in the distance. I can visualize the cars streaming in and out of the parking lot on Friday nights. The lights from the stadium blazing into the front windows of nearby homes. The teens with their painted chests, sipping from flasks in their parents' borrowed cars before cheering on their classmates and barfing up the booze on the aluminum benches. They wouldn't be looking at the windows of the funeral home either. They wouldn't be wondering who lay stiff inside a bargain-priced coffin. They wouldn't weep for the dead.
Was I any better? Would I weep? I should. After all, it's my brother and sister-in-law lying side-by-side in matching cherry-wood caskets inside the funeral home. But I hadn't seen them or even heard from them in 12 years. There were no Facebook status updates to keep me abreast of their comings and goings. No Christmas cards or emails to keep me informed of what the late Trevor and Jennifer Redmond or their two very much alive daughters were up to these
days. This was my doing of course, not theirs. They would have just as soon had weekly dinners or whatever normal people do with family. Do people even have dinner with family anymore? Or is that out of style? These things are a bit lost on me.
Three days ago when my emergency cell phone rang—yes, even hermits can have cell phones—I didn't expect news of my little brother's death. I'd left the number at the retirement home where my parents were living. Only the home's director had the number. I had left it with the man just in case there was some emergency news I might need. But in truth the only call I expected was one telling me that one of my parents had died. My parents didn't want to see me anyway. And this was one way I could ensure that I was at least available at the end. But my brother Trevor dying wasn't the end I expected.
Trevor and Jennifer Redmond had been staying in Fort Lauderdale waiting to board a Caribbean cruise to celebrate their 18th wedding anniversary. They'd wandered into the wrong neighborhood and were mugged. What exactly ensued wasn't entirely clear, but their bodies were found in an alley. Stabbed. Wallet, purse and jewelry gone. A surprising and sad end to two beautiful people. There was too much of that going around. Things like that don't just happen on TV or in books. It happens in real life too, but you don't notice it until it hits you—or someone you care about.
The retirement home's director apologized for the call, but felt someone needed to tell me that my brother was gone and that a funeral was planned in Spokane in a few days. I barely spoke a word, in part because I had a bit of trouble finding my voice after months of inactivity, but also because I was devastated by the news.
More family dying. It was happening again. Just like 12 years ago. It's not the same as the day I learned my wife and daughter died. That was, well, different.