“Hey there, Yum-yum! How’s Fort Lauderdale?” he asked.
“I dunno. I’ll let you know if I ever get to explore it,” I answered.
“I can’t wait until you get home,” he said with the warmest smile imaginable.
“Neither can I, Rob. There’s something else you might like to think about before I get there,” I said.
“Oh? And what, pray tell, might that be?”
“I’m still wearing the panties I showed you when I got to Houston. I haven’t changed them since I left.”
He stared at me through his phone’s camera. I pressed two buttons on mine.
“Uh… gross?” he observed.
I laughed so hard I had to sit on the bed. “Use that line in one of your novels!”
“That was… funny. Gross, but funny.”
“The look on your face was hysterical, and I caught it.”
His chuckles included the sweetest smile. I quickly iMessaged him the screenshot.
“You’re such a dork,” he commented with a laugh when he opened it.
“Yeah. And I’m your dork.”
“You absolutely are. Let me know when you’re on your way home from the airport?” he requested.
“I will. See you in about five hours.”
“Love you!” he said before our call ended.
The crew assembled in the lobby and headed to the airport for our final flight of the sequence.
ROBIN
St. Peters, Missouri
Wednesday, March 4, 2020 4:47pm
Rhodesian Ridgebacks don’t bark at doorknockers like a lot of other breeds do, but Tater trotted to one of the sidelights by the front door to catch a glimpse, while I could see on the CCTV display in the office the FedEx Freight guy who’d deposited four identically sized boxes on the covered porch.
Our dog somehow seemed to know he shouldn’t cross the front door’s threshold without a leash attached to his collar, so he stepped back a few feet as I took the first box off the top of the stack.
“Yay! They’re here!” I exclaimed to Tater after I kicked the door closed with my foot.
I knew what the boxes contained because my publisher’s agent at E. R. Stenning & Sons had told me the parcels had been shipped. I excitedly carried the roughly sixty pound box back to the office. That I knew what was inside the box didn’t temper my enthusiasm to open it. I clipped the fiberglass packing straps with scissors, and heightening my own anticipation, slowly removed the top.
Tater sniffed the open box from a number of angles. It appeared the scent of twenty freshly printed hardback Advance Reader Copies of my third novel was new to him. It wasn’t new to me, but just as much as a particular aroma is enjoyed by buyers of new cars, the scent thrilled me yet again. I pulled one from the box and examined the new cover art. I’d seen it electronically a week before, but the glossy jackets brought more realism.
Mark Wright Book 3
Grant Robins
With Brandi’s blessing, the dedication printed in my first novel read:
This book is dedicated to C. and R., two people I loved with my entire being but which were wrested from this Earth. While their time on this planet was far too brief, the memories shared among those who loved them deeply will keep their spirits alive forever. And to my wife-to-be, whose gentle encouragements enabled me to escape the depths. Without her, the words in this book would be nonexistent. My supportive fiancée is the reason I began this new journey.
The second novel included only Brandi in the dedication, but it was similarly vague in nature. I preferred writing under a pseudonym and obfuscating specific names as it afforded a little more anonymity. Sure, it wasn’t like anyone with half a brain couldn’t research a little and put two and two together. I did, though, hand write something personal into each new book for certain people. I took the first copy I’d removed from the box to the desk and wrote on the flyleaf.
Brandi, you’ve always been my muse. I can’t begin to describe my love for you. Your patience and encouraging manner combined with your gentle carriage is a wonderful combination I adore. For innumerable reasons, everything about you makes me a stronger man than I could be without you. You are my all.
I love you. Yours forever, God willing,
Robin
I wanted my wife to personally know how much I appreciated the encouragement for me to write that first novel. I never would have done it without her urging during a dark time in my life, and I never would have believed it’d be published, let alone become a best seller, as had the second in the series. I owed her far more than published words on paper, yet she easily dismissed my perceived debt, and only my own handwriting in ink on paper could acknowledge that.
“Rob, I only offered you a suggestion. Everything you’ve penned is yours and yours alone. I’m so proud to be your wife!” she told me after the first one hit the shelves.
I brought the additional three cases of books inside so they wouldn’t soak up the humidity from the approaching rain. Most people outside of publishing experience don’t realize that authors usually have to pay for copies of their own books. Sure, they’re deeply discounted, but still not free. I’d paid over $200 for twenty of my first book’s advance copies.
Given the success of the first installment in the Mark Wright series entitled Escaping the Depths, they gifted me the first twenty ARCs of the second, but I had to purchase additional. With the third, they sent four cases without any question and advised there were hundreds more copies slated for reviewers. They also advised that, after seeing preliminary chapters of Book Four, foreign language versions of the first in the series were being translated for markets in Europe and parts of Asia, and (complimentary) galley proofs of each of them would be headed my way by the end of the year.
At that point, I could tell my publisher was beginning to mollycoddle me. It actually made my pride prickle, but Brandi, quite thankfully, nudged me back down a few pegs.
“Don’t stop being the man you were before your first book was published. Your humility is a precious part of your soul, Robin, and I’d hate to see it fade,” she advised me when she sensed a shift. “Remember, Babe. It’s your words that engaged them, but it’s your readers who’ve brought you here. Without them, your tales are just occupying space on your iMac.”
Those words were the genesis of the dedication in the draft of Book 4.
A wise sage once advised me that, without you, the Mark Wright tales would be nothing but ordered bytes on a solid state drive. This book is dedicated to you, the reader, with my humble thanks and gratitude.
Brandi tenderly rubbed my back when I showed her the screen after I’d written it.
“That’s it, Babe. Your readers deserve such an acknowledgment, and that’s absolutely perfect.”
I pulled a FedEx two-day box from the shelf along with a second ARC.
On its flyleaf I wrote:
To the Carlsons:
Brandi and I still feel we owe you a debt we can’t ever repay. We are approaching the first anniversary of the marriage you made possible. There’s a wink and a nod to both of you in Chapter 57 surrounding the events which led you two to meet. I hope you find it entertaining.
It is my hope that this finds you well and healthy. Thank you, Todd and Brenda, because we truly owe you our world.
All the best,
Rob and Brandi Grant