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A year ago, almost to the day of this publication, I started writing about Cary Browning. I don’t know where he came from, or where I found Cilla, but there they were, fully formed and intriguing. A couple with a history that wasn’t a romance. Or much of a friendship even. A couple who came with secrets and baggage which I figured out along the way. I liked them.
At that time in my life, my husband and I were living on the second floor of our home along with my daughter and her husband and our household zoo: four dogs (and a fifth temporary foster) and nine cats. The first floor of the house had been destroyed by Hurricane Harvey’s flooding.
My husband and son-in-law were doing the rebuilding themselves. The noise made working very difficult. Then there was the fact that we’d lost so much and were making do in the meantime... a donated bed, thrift store clothes, an office converted to a bedroom. An upstairs bedroom converted to a kitchen and pantry with a dorm-sized fridge, a microwave, and a toaster oven.
But it was okay. We were happy. We replaced our washer and dryer as soon as the laundry room was clean. It had no walls, only studs, but that was okay. Being able to wash clothes at home was a huge step back to normal. And those steps continued one at a time, day by day.
We didn’t have to worry about Halloween that year, my husband’s FAVORITE holiday, because the neighborhood was empty. We were actually the only family living in our half-circle of five homes. It was quiet at night and so noisy during the day as construction crews worked.
Time passed. December 20th arrived. I had an early doctor’s appointment. My husband picked me up afterward and we grabbed brunch. It was sunny. I brought my writing project outside. Later that evening he grilled sausage for dinner. I made instant mashed potatoes and opened a can of green beans. We sat at the folding table in our cabinetless kitchen to eat together. He made a big thing about us always eating together. Connecting at the end of every day.
He showed me a funny Christmas video on his phone. Then he spent some time in the hot tub while I went upstairs to watch TV. He joined me later and we shared a piece of apple pie that a friend had sent us for Christmas. It was an amazing day. We laughed and flirted and teased.
When I woke the next morning, he had passed away. He’d been sleeping on the sofa in my office which wasn’t unusual. Sometimes it was more comfortable for his back. Sometimes it was about me snoring too much. Or our old dog hogging the bed. She thinks she’s small. She’s not.
He was my best friend. We were constant companions as we both worked from home. Life ground to a halt. I couldn’t think about writing. I wasn’t sure if I ever would again. Walt was my champion, my sounding board, my go-to guy when I was floundering. I could give him the bullet points and he’d throw spaghetti at the wall until something stuck. He did this for twenty years.
The last thing he told me that final night when he came to bed was story related. He’d watched a video about the making of Star Wars. He was a story guy through and through. We published our first co-authored book in February 2017. He left me with the draft of the follow-up and notes on the final piece of the trilogy that I have yet to tackle. I’m daunted by the task, but I’ll do it.
He believed in me. He nagged me. He got irritated when I didn’t work. He cheered when things went well. We spent hours discussing plots and characters: of our sci-fi trilogy, of my romances, of my police procedural. He saved my plot on that one, too. His strengths were my weaknesses and vice versa. It was why we made the perfect writing team. The perfect team in every way.
A month or so before he died, we’d talked at length about our writing future as our house was being rebuilt. How it was now my job to get our second book edited and ready to publish so we could repackage and relaunch the series. We were so excited. And I’ve held that feeling close.
It’s been hard to return to a creative life when within a year I lost half of my home and possessions, both of my parents, and my husband. What keeps me going is knowing how much he loved that I was a writer, how proud he was of my accomplishments—most of which he played a part in—and how excited we both were to continue our co-authored series.
As much as I do this for myself, I do it for him. I’m certain my writing has changed because my view on life has changed. I hope you will accept that and continue this journey with me.