Better Not Love Me (24 page)
Read Better Not Love Me Online
Authors: Dan Kolbet
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
.
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.
My little brother Trevor was the pride and joy of the Redmond family. No one doubted it. He was the top of his class at Santa Clara. Went to med school at the University of Washington, and became a highly sought-after plastic surgeon who volunteered his vacation time in third-world countries helping kids with cleft palates and other ailments. He was a Neighborhood Watch captain. Drove a Volvo station wagon. He baked. He was a goddamned American hero.
Jennifer wasn't far behind his greatness. Undergrad and law degrees from Gonzaga University. Former Lilac Princess and Miss Spokane. President of the PTO. She left her law practice behind to raise their daughters at home. Little Gracie was now 6
and Kendall was 16 or was it 17? I can't recall. This power couple of goodness left a wide wake behind them and two kids.
This sad tale would seem to make the case for me to lift my ass off the bumper of the truck and walk inside the funeral home to pay my respects. But that isn't the case. They'd all see me. See what I'd become in my 41 years on this earth and wonder why Trevor was gone, but Billy was still kicking around.
Why was he spared when "the good one" was dead?
they would ask. This was a tragedy that I had no connection to. I didn't need the grief I was sure to get, because I'd been through it before. I'd lost the goodness in my life too, but I couldn't think about them now. My wife and daughter. It's been so long—12 years—but the memory is still as new and raw as the day I lost them. When everything changed and I had to go away.
I tried to shake the memory loose in my brain. I was sweaty and frayed. The tie around my neck seemed to tighten like a noose. I yank it off and unbutton my top shirt button, finally able to breathe again. I didn't use to be this way. Anxious. Frozen in place by my fears. But I recognize they exist. That's got to mean something.
The noxious feeling passes, but here I remain on the truck's bumper, holding my crumpled necktie, afraid of what I might find inside the funeral home. Who I might see or who might see me. Family and old friends. What they will think and say behind my back. I was a coward, but at least I can admit it. I am a coward in a dated suit and crumpled necktie.
My attention shifts to a couple emerging from behind the funeral home. A young girl, maybe in her late teens and a boy of a similar age. She leans against the side of the building as he presses his body and mouth toward hers. She has a very pale face and dark eye makeup. Is Goth the right word? The young lovers seem unaware of the bearded guy in the parking lot watching them. Lost in their own youthful kisses and lust. I watch, if only because it was one more thing to postpone my long walk into the funeral home. A walk I don't want to take in the first place.
Only when the boy lets the girl come up for air do I see the resemblance. My teenage niece, Kendall Redmond, sure looks like her mom Jennifer.
* * *
"Hey, buddy!" the boy yells, suddenly stomping across the lot toward me. "What are you looking at?"
The boy holds Kendall's hand, pulling her along with him, the adolescent fury reddening his face. How dare someone watch him going at it with his girlfriend in broad daylight in a parking lot?
The boy marches right up to me and stands inches from my chest. Kendall stands behind him, seemingly disinterested in the confrontation. Her hair is dyed black, with only the faint blonde roots giving her away. She is tall with long legs covered in black fishnet stockings, knee-high boots and a short black leather skirt. Her face is painted pale white, while her eyes are encircled with black. Her mom was a gorgeous woman. And sure, she looks like her mom, if her mom worshipped the devil and was a streetwalker.
The boy is now in my face. Maybe this bravado is the boy's way of protecting her. Maybe he is like every other person on the planet who doesn't know how to deal with death and mourning. Maybe he is hurting. Or maybe he's just an asshole.
"You got a problem pal?" the boy asks.
I stand my ground. What do I have to fear from this kid? At 6 feet, 3 inches tall, I actually tower over the boy. His head doesn't even reach as high as my beard.
The boy starts to roll up his sleeves. He looks like a bull dancing before charging the matador and his red cloth.
"Hey, lumberjack—are you eyeing my girlfriend? Is that your deal, perv?" he asks.
With that, Kendall meets my eyes for the first time. She looks away, and then quickly back again. She was around 6 years old when I left. Does she remember her uncle? She probably remembers me as the guy who brought her gifts on birthdays and Christmas, the guy who let her steer my convertible Mustang when her parents weren't watching. She doesn't seem like the same person, but then again, neither do I.
"Ethan, back off him," she says. "That's my long-lost Uncle Billy."
The way she said it made me feel like I am two feet tall.
"Kendall," is all I say, feeling quite long-lost.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
I clear my throat, again. I'm not used to speaking.
"The funeral," I manage to get out.
"No shit. Why are you outside?" she asks.
"Why are
you
outside?" I reply. Knowing full well how annoying it is to answer a question with a question.
"I don't know anyone in there," she says. "They don't know me either."
Like two peas in a pod.