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it
started.
    I haven't been back to
the dentist since that day 20 years ago. The thought now—12 years after
Jane's death—of going back to a dental office scares the hell out of me.
When I see a woman in blue scrubs I practically freeze in place. A few years
back I actually walked into a garbage can while a woman in blue scrubs walked
toward me from the other side of the street. She had blonde hair though. And of
course, it wasn't Jane. Just my imagination screwing with me.
    *
* *
    There's this thing that
older people say when they find love for a second time. They say it's
better—regardless of how their previous relationship ended. It's just
better. You know more. You know you and what you want and expect from a person.
You aren't dealing with whatever it was that made your last relationship go off
track.   It's just better. Or so
they say.
    With Jane it was better
even if I didn't have a past "something" to compare it too. Sure, I'd
dated before, but it was mostly when I was in high school or college when I
wasn't seriously in the market for a long-term relationship. When I didn't really
know who I was as a person either. The women were great, but they all faded
away. Not with Jane, though. We moved fast. Lightning fast, but at the same
time at just the right speed.
    Our first date—if
you don't count that floating dental chair—was to the Fourth of July
parade at this tiny lake resort at Deer Lake. I was so taken aback when Jane
called me out in the office that I hadn't actually planned on what I was going
to ask her to do. Yet, I'd planned to go up to the resort the next day anyway
to fulfill an obligation to a friend to help install the outboard motor on his
fishing boat. Bringing along this beautiful woman with me was just a bonus.
    From the moment I picked
her up—through the 30 minute drive up to the lake, throughout lunch,
outboard-motor tinkering, a spat of fishing, some sunbathing, dinner, drinks
and walking in this goofy little parade around the resort holding American
flags—we never stopped talking. She loved fireworks, so we watched them
together, holding hands on the beach. Never was there that uncomfortable lull
in the conversation that made you wonder about your list of chores at home or
when you needed to leave to get back and watch the ball game.
    It was natural. And
awesome.
    I think saying that you
fell in love at first sight is stupid. Stupid because how can you possibly know
that this person has everything you need to make you happy? How can you know
that she will be there for you when you are down or that she won't be afraid to
put you in your place when you're a jerk? How can anyone know that the person
they just met—despite those green eyes and jet-black hair—will be
anything more than just a desire? How can you fall in love at first sight?
    Beats the hell out of
me. It defies all logic. But we did. And it was great for years until I
torpedoed it. And it all started when I finally wrote something worthwhile.
    *
* *
    Fourteen years ago my
novel Isolated
Highway reached number one on the New York Times Best Seller list and
stayed at or near the top for 16 weeks. I earned-out on the small advance
payment I received from the publisher in the first six months; meaning that I
started making money on the sales right away. This isn't typical of unknown
authors. Sure, every author has to start somewhere in order to make a name for
themselves, but my friends and family didn't even know I was writing or even
that I had the mental capacity to craft a story somewhere in the depths of my
brain. Jane knew, of course, but assumed that it was just a
hobby—something that would go away at some point.
    When I decided to major
in history in college, my father told me I was in trouble. " People won't pay
you to talk about old stuff ," he had said. Indeed that was true. My
career selling real estate and insurance, then a stint as a financial planner
hadn't exactly set me on the path to riches. My history