Chapter 1

“The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.” Mother Theresa

“Hi, Mindy,” I said, as my neighbor’s 18-year-old daughter slid into the front seat of my pickup truck, “How was school today?”

“Oh, it was great, Alan,” she answered with her usual combination of seriousness, yet with a bubbly personality, “just half-days for today and the next two days, then graduation! I am SO excited!”

I knew Mindy had already been accepted to the University of Miami on a full academic scholarship and was eager to get her high school days over with.

I took just a few seconds to once again admire this bright, vivacious young lady. She was so incredibly pretty.

Her parents had entrusted me to look out for her for a few days, and drop her off and pick her up from her very exclusive, private high school, while they were out-of-state dealing with a family emergency.

I suppose some people would say Mindy wasn’t what you would call “Hollywood” beautiful, but her combination of intelligence and energy, along with her very slim and trim body and her long blonde hair made up an incredible package.

Yes, her teeth were a little uneven, and perhaps her nose was slightly crooked (bicycle accident a few years ago), and I suppose, if you were looking for faults, you could even say that her ears were a little too large for her face ... but I thought – and not for the first time – that she was one damn fine looking young woman.

In fact, the more I looked at her, the more convinced I became that she was a lot prettier than the “Hollywood” beauties, who often look artificial and plastic. This was a real woman ... well, young girl.

Even though I was almost sure she had been wearing jeans earlier this morning, now she was wearing very short peach-colored shorts that really showed off her gorgeous tanned legs, and a white, very conservative blouse, buttoned up almost to the top button.

She gave me a smile when she realized I was staring at her legs, so I tried to cover up by asking, “What exactly are we, or you, supposed to do today? Your parents weren’t too clear on that last night. Am I supposed to drop you off at your house, or take you to a friend’s house or what... ?”

I suppose at this point, I should explain a few things.

My name is Alan and I am 29 years old. I am just a tad under six feet tall, and weigh about 185 pounds. I had spent six years in the Marine Corps, before getting out on a medical discharge.

Just a month after getting out, my beloved wife and two precious sons (who were two and four years old) were all killed when they were hit by a drunk truck driver near our home in North Carolina.

To say I was devastated would be an understatement. My entire world fell to pieces.

We were just starting the next phase of our life together, post-Marine Corps, and in just seconds everything that gave my life meaning was taken from me.

My wife Julie’s grandparents were both from Ireland, and we actually would have been leaving in just a few days to spend several weeks in that country where Julie could meet her ancestral family.

I had inherited enough money from my father’s estate after his death, a couple of years earlier, to pay for the extended trip to Ireland and support Julie and the kids for a year or more if necessary.

As terrible as their deaths were, I found out within hours it wasn’t exactly a typical accident. The truck driver had had two previous DUIs (Driving Under the Influence), and his employer (think about a really, really large beverage company based in Atlanta) had known about the DUIs, and yet let him keep driving.

After I sued, the beverage company used every trick in the book to delay the suit for three years, before eventually settling out of court. As part of the settlement I am not allowed to mention the name of the company, nor the amount of the settlement, but even after paying all legal bills, I walked away with nearly eight figures.

I would give it all back for just five more minutes with my wife Julie, and my sons Jason and Joseph. Just minutes before the wreck, Julie and I had argued over some silly little nothing, and when she left the house I did not tell her how much I loved her.

I never got to tell her how sorry I was, and never got to say goodbye.

And I knew every single day – for the rest of my life – I would regret that.

Even before their deaths, I had really been struggling, both physically and emotionally, with my life. I had always been fairly athletic, joining the track team in high school where I really excelled in running distance events and became one of the top high school runners in my state.

My love of running became almost an obsession after joining the Marine Corps, and it wasn’t unusual for me to run six, eight or even 10 miles some days.

I had loved being a Marine, loved keeping myself in good shape, and then had to struggle learning to adjust to words such as “handicapped veteran,” and “disabled veteran.”

So even before their deaths, I was having a difficult time adjusting to civilian life.

Julie had been so incredibly supportive of me during that time.

As difficult as it was to accept I would never be able to run again, at least I knew I would always have Julie by my side.

But that drunken truck driver had taken Julie and my kids away from me as well.

Now I was expected to somehow go on with my life, without the first woman I had ever really loved, and without the two beautiful sons our union had produced?

The money from the beverage company, together with the life insurance settlement from my wife’s death, and my military disability pay meant I never had to work again, as long as I invested prudently and didn’t buy frivolous things.

Just sitting around feeling sorry for myself didn’t particularly appeal to me, and so I was trying to decide how to spend the rest of my life – alone.

Although I would never admit it to anyone, I had always been something of a geek and nerd in school. I think that probably had something to do with my joining the track team where I had actually surprised myself with how well I could run, and how much I had loved running.

After joining the Marines, I had also obtained several bachelor’s degrees as well (the geek and nerd side of me, no doubt).

With my educational background, I could have gotten a job teaching at any school or college in North Carolina, but I did not think I could take being around young people. The death of my wife and sons was still too painful.

Life in the corporate world had even less appeal for me.

I had inherited a my father’s woodworking tools (he had been a skilled carpenter), and I had always enjoyed working with wood myself, so I added a few things and decided to try my hand as a custom furniture maker/carpenter. My father had taught me everything I know about carpentry – not necessarily everything HE knew, but everything I knew – which was actually a lot if I do say so myself.

Another thing I had inherited from my Dad, before his three-pack-a-day cigarette habit killed him, was his love of old songs, and his incredible collection of music.

I had thousands of vinyl records and albums, I had eight-track tapes, cassette tapes, and even a number of CDs. My Dad had just started buying CDs shortly before his death.

My Dad would constantly play these songs, so this was the music I grew up with, and I learned to love those old songs as much as he did.

One night, shortly after we had finally settled with the beverage company, one of those songs nearly led to my death. I will get more into that later on, but just wanted to mention what well may be the saddest and most mournful song ever recorded.

The name of the song is “No Blade Of Grass,” by Roger Whitaker. Try to imagine, if you possibly can, hearing this song after losing everything, EVERYTHING, both personally and professionally that gave your life meaning.

There will be more about that song later, but that was my state of mind after Julie, Joseph and Jason were killed: “Gone is the hope that life will go on.”

I knew I had to get away, get away from old memories of my wife and kids.

“To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.” Bertrand Russell

Before I left North Carolina, however, I made a very solemn promise to myself. I would never – NEVER – fall in love again.

I would harden my heart, harden my spirit and only seek out those things I could afford to lose without regret. I would never fall in love with anything – or especially any ONE – I could not walk away from without pain.

I must never again put myself into the position where I could lose, where I could be hurt, where I could suffer such pain and anguish again.

I did not care how beautiful the woman might be, how passionate the kiss, how enjoyable or frantic the lovemaking, I must be prepared at any minute to walk away, to cut my loss without regret.

Love – true love – comes at a cost infinitely higher than I could ever pay again.

I had learned my lesson the hard way.

From now on, it would be love on MY terms, MY conditions.

I would be ever vigilant, always realizing love was a weakness.

Love is a weakness. I would be strong.

Love is a weakness. I would not be weak.

Love is a weakness. I would not love again – EVER!

Again, I will explain more about the events leading up to my moving, but I moved to Florida where I bought the house next door to Mindy’s parents about two years ago.

Each house is on a five-acre plot, so even though I was their closest neighbor, my house was still a good quarter-mile from theirs.

My house had a detached four-car garage, and about a week after moving in I was setting up my wood-working equipment in the garage when I heard someone say, “Hello ... hello?”

That voice belonged to Mindy. When I looked up, I saw two very pretty young girls on bicycles in front of the garage.

“Well, howdy,” I answered, “and just who might y’all be?” I can’t help it, I was born Southern, lived Southern most of my life, and hoped to die Southern. Or as the old saying goes, “Southern-born and Southern-bred, and when I die, I will be Southern-dead.”

Mindy introduced herself, and the other girl, who turned out to be her younger sister, Sara. I introduced myself. When I first saw them on their bikes, I was guessing that Mindy and Sara were both about 14.

As it turned out, Mindy was 16, and her sister was 14. Mindy was about 5’1”, and Sara, even though she was two years younger, was about 5’4”. Mindy was very slim and trim, with just enough up top to give her blouse some definition. Sara had very muscular legs, but was almost string bean thin, and as flat as a board up top.

I never would have guessed they were even related, much less sisters.

Mindy had very long, blonde hair that flowed to her waist, while Sara’s auburn hair with red highlights was cut very short.

I found out Mindy, her sister, and their parents had just returned from a two-week vacation that morning, when the girls saw my truck and rode over to meet the new neighbor.

Mindy’s first question, after we introduced ourselves, was whether I was married and had any kids.

I hesitated, then said, “Well, I was married. I also had two sons, but they were all ... were all killed ... all killed three years ago in a wreck. My sons ... my sons were... (and here I had to turn away for a minute) were two and four.”

Mindy and Julie both told me how sorry they were, but I could swear Mindy turned pale when I told them about the deaths of my wife and sons, and mentioned how young Joseph and Jason had been.

It was really strange. Back home in North Carolina, since nearly everyone I encountered on a daily basis knew about Julie and the boys, I never had to talk about their deaths. I had been in Florida less than two weeks, and this was probably the 10^th time I had had to explain.

It really didn’t get any easier, and I know they could probably hear the pain and anguish in my voice, and no doubt see the tears welling up in my eyes.

After a brief silence, I asked the girls about their vacation and I think they were as eager to change the subject as I was.

Sara started telling me ALL about their trip. They had flown to New York, then spent two weeks traveling throughout the New England area.

After about 10 or 15 minutes, Mindy rejoined the conversation and then they took turns talking about everything they had seen, and everywhere they had traveled.

We probably talked for another hour and I explained what most of the wood-working machines were for, when Sara said they probably needed to head back home, since they had told their parents they wouldn’t be very long.

As they were leaving, the strangest thing happened.

I held out my hand to Sara, and she shook it, and I told her how happy I was to meet her and her sister, and I hoped we could become good friends. She also said she would like that.

But when I held out my hand to Mindy, she ignored my hand and put her arms around me and gave me a hug! And not just any hug, but a very hard hug, with her head resting against my chest.

Very surprised, I kind of clumsily put my arms loosely around her and hugged her back for a couple of seconds before dropping my hands to my side. However Mindy kept hugging me for a really awkward amount of time.

She also mumbled into my chest she “knew” we were going to be friends. I think she said “great friends” but it was kind of difficult to understand exactly what she was saying. Then she suddenly dropped her arms, and quickly turned away and almost ran to her bicycle, like she didn’t want me to see her face, but I could almost swear I saw tears running down her cheeks!

“Teenage girls” was all I could think of to try to explain her actions.

That evening, I met the rest of the family when Tom and Jennifer Jackson (their parents) dropped by, along with Mindy and Sara, bringing a welcoming present.

Looking at the parents, it was obvious which child took after which parent.

Jennifer, 39, was about 5’3”, with blonde hair and was slim (probably 110 lbs) but had a very nice figure.

Tom, 49, was about 5’8”, with auburn hair, very muscular, and it was obvious he spent a lot of time working out. I am sure this sounds rather awkward, but the most obvious thing about Tom, however, was his artificial leg.

We spent several hours talking that evening.

I also explained to Tom and Jennifer about the deaths of my wife and sons in the wreck, but did not, at least yet, explain any of the details about the tragedy, nor any information about the settlement. I just told them I moved to Florida “to start my life over”, and they were very sympathetic.

I found out Tom had spent 12 years in the Marine Corps, and of course I had served for six years. Tom had been a Major, while I had been a lowly enlisted man, rising to the rank of Staff Sergeant.

Tom lost a leg in Iraq when the vehicle he was riding in hit a roadside IED (Improvised Explosive Device) and wore a custom prosthetic. He had received a 100 percent disability from the Marine Corps, then went to work for a local real estate company after his discharge and after moving to Florida, eventually buying the company.

“I think Tom could sell ice to the Eskimos,” Jennifer bragged, then added that probably wasn’t the politically correct way of putting it, since now it was supposed to be Inuits, but she didn’t care if it was politically correct or not.

As I was to find out, when Jennifer wanted to say something, she simply said it, and didn’t care who heard it!

Jennifer also sold real estate with her husband, and served as chairman of the local school’s PTSA (Parent-Teacher-Student Association). She was also involved in a number of charities, and other civic organizations.

It quickly became obvious Tom and Jennifer were a study in contrasts. Tom was very quiet and reserved, and seemed to consider everything he said, before saying it. I quickly sensed, however, he had the inner strength you would expect to find in a former Marine Corps officer. When he did speak, you found yourself listening to every word.

Jennifer talked nearly non-stop, and seemed to have an opinion on every subject under the sun. It would have been easy to dismiss her as being somewhat flighty – almost a stereotype of a typical blonde – but you also sensed some of this was almost a facade masking a very intelligent and caring woman.

As Tom and I talked, I found out even with the prosthetic, he regularly ran in 5k and 10k races, and really kept himself in good shape.

Five years ago I had been a hard-core runner, putting in 30 or more miles each week, but those days were far behind me.

As I mentioned, that was one of the things most difficult for me to get used to, not being able to run for the final year-and-a-half in the Marine Corps. My wife Julie and I used to run together all the time (when she wasn’t pregnant), and in fact our shared love for running was actually pivotal in our meeting and getting married.

At Julie’s insistence, I paid what I thought was a ridiculous amount of money for a bicycle, and would ride the bike while Julie ran, but it was never the same. I didn’t tell Julie, instead I would joke with her about how much I enjoyed riding while she was doing all the hard work and getting really sweaty and stinky. Being “sweaty and stinky” was something of an inside joke between the two of us, and went back to the very first day we had met.

Despite the front I tried to put on for her benefit, I think she sensed my difficulty in coming to grasp with the terms, “handicapped” and “disabled.”

Yes, I knew, compared to what some people had to go through after being injured, my problems might have seemed less serious, but they were very serious to me!

Growing up, my parents had always stressed there was nothing you couldn’t do, if you really wanted it bad enough. Excuses were just that – excuses for not really wanting something badly enough.

After my discharge I was learning there really were a lot of things I couldn’t do anymore – no matter how badly I wanted them! Running was just one example.

Another was so simple we never even think about – just kneeling down. Such as kneeling down to play with your children. That was something else I found out I could barely do. Getting up and down off the floor became a very painful, time consuming process which served to further emphasize those words I was learning to hate: handicapped and disabled.

How do you tell a four-year-old “Daddy can’t play with you,” if playing involved getting down on the floor?

As I had mentioned earlier, I was also a disabled veteran, but my problem (a bad knee), was only rated at 40 percent.

I had made over 150 parachute jumps for the Marine Corps, but the first time I actually made a combat jump at night I landed in a six-inch drainage ditch in Afghanistan and shattered my knee, also fracturing my leg. A year-and-a-half and four operations later I could walk, but will always have a limp. One leg was now about a half-inch shorter than the other, and I had lost most of the mobility in the knee. I could still bend the knee, but only with a fair amount of pain, and kneeling, like I said, was even more difficult.

Unfortunately the Marine Corps didn’t need enlisted men who could no longer physically perform the challenges of their jobs, so they offered, and I finally accepted, a 40 percent disability.

Before my discharge, the Marines also awarded me a couple of medals for some things that also happened while I was in Afghanistan, but I never, never talked about those.

When they presented me the medals, I was still pretty much knocked out on pain pills following one of the surgeries, or I would probably have tried to refuse them, since I didn’t feel I deserved any medals.

Too many good men died, and I felt personally responsible for those deaths. I do know that for at least six months after returning from Afghanistan, I had horrible nightmares nearly every night.

I had lost count of the number of times Julie would wake me up and I would be drenched in sweat. She tried to be very supportive during this time, but I couldn’t even tell her what had really happened.

With Julie’s constant love and unquestioning support, the dreams eventually lessened in both intensity and frequency, until for the last two months before Julie and the boys were killed, I only think I had one or two nightmares.

So, no, I never talked about what happened in Afghanistan, or my medals – I didn’t want to invite those memories to return. It was hard enough just to talk about the drainage ditch, without mentioning anything else.

And I did not mention the medals, or give any details about Afghanistan, to Tom or Jennifer either that night. I explained about the parachute jump and the damage to my leg and knee, but not about anything else.

Jennifer and Tom were both very involved in a number of veterans’ organizations, and tried to get me involved as well.

Despite their enthusiasm for these organizations, I just wasn’t ready to reconnect with other veterans.

I could tell Tom was a little curious about what had happened in Afghanistan, and why I was disinclined to join any veterans’ organizations, but he seemed to accept the explanation I really did not want to dwell on things which had happened in the past.

The combined Jackson family and I really became very good friends. Tom, Jennifer, Mindy and Sara would invite me over for supper at least once a week, and a couple of times a month I would invite their family over to my house for a cookout by my in-ground pool.

I sometimes wonder what I would have done if I had not met the Jackson family when I moved to Florida. I did not know a single person in Florida, and their family became very important to me.

A couple of weeks after we met, I started doing some repairs on houses they had listed, helping get them ready to be sold.

I believe at first they did it thinking I needed the money, but after a few months, and after I had gotten to know them much better I told them about the court settlement, and the fact I really didn’t need to work, but enjoyed keeping myself busy.

They had also contacted other Realtors in the area, and apparently were quite effusive in their praise for the quality of my work. I now had more work than I could do by myself, so I got to pick and choose those projects which were the most interesting to me.

In the movie “The Fugitive” Tommy Lee Jones, as Deputy Marshall Sam Gerard, instructs his men to “search every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse” in the area. In North Carolina, I probably knew the location of every one of those within a 50-mile radius of my house, thanks to riding around with my Dad, plus my own travels, but in Florida it took quite a while to find anything.

It was pretty frustrating at first, but eventually I learned that sometimes it really is necessary to stop and ask for directions!

During the day, I had enough to do to keep me busy, either working on different houses, or trying to FIND the houses I was supposed to be working on, but at night the loneliness really hit me hard.

When I moved to Florida, it had been three years since Julie, Joseph and Jason had died, but at night all I could think about was how much I missed them, and how much I wished we were still together.

At night, my dreams were filled with thoughts of my beautiful lost wife and my two precious, and precocious sons.

I hated the nights!

Music has always played an important role in my life, thanks to both my Mom and Dad. I loved to listen to music, and, as you will learn later, I used to play some, but had not done so in a long, long time.

If I had to list one song that characterized my life in those early days in Florida, it would probably be the Hank Williams Sr. classic, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” I would frequently listen to that song, and had recordings of it by 20 or 30 different artists.

My favorite recording was by country legend Marty Robbins:

I don’t know if they just felt sorry for me or not, but I cannot tell you how much their invitations to dinner, and visits to my house, meant to me, especially during those first months in Florida.

Several times a week, Mindy and Sara, or just Mindy by herself, would walk or ride over to my house if they noticed I was in the garage running the woodworking tools. I would also perform any needed repairs on their bicycles.

With their parents’ permission, I taught both girls how to operate the various machines, and before long both girls could operate any of the tools, and could operate a wood lathe or planer like a pro.

When we weren’t operating the equipment we also talked a lot, although if both Mindy and Sara were there I mostly listened. Trying to get a word in edgewise with these two was almost impossible!

If Mindy came over by herself, we usually talked about school or books. Mindy loved to read, as I did, so when we were alone, and I was not operating any of the tools, we would often discuss books.

She had a wide range of reading interests, and we would often debate the points of different books. I can’t even tell you how much I enjoyed seeing her brow bunch up when she was trying to make a point, or the sudden “Ah Ha” moment when she realized the point I was trying to make.

Unbelievably, to me, she had never read any books by Jack London.

“You have simply GOT to read Jack London,” I told her. “I think he may be one of the best writers who ever lived.”

I strongly advised she start with “To Build A Fire,” then add “The Call Of The Wild,” and “White Fang,” to her book list, and she absolutely loved them all.

Any day Mindy, or Sara and Mindy, could not come over just seemed a little less bright, a little less pleasant.

I also introduced both Mindy and Sara to many of the songs from my Dad’s collection. Most of the songs were ones they had never heard before, so it was really exciting to be able to share my music with them.

One unusual thing happened one day while I was playing one of those old tunes for Mindy and Sara. The singer was Bobby Darin, and the name of the song was “Dream Lover.”

As I was playing the song and listening to the words, my eyes filled with tears. I had only really cried one time since Julie and the boys had been killed, and that one time was too painful to even think about. Then I got angry at myself for my emotional reaction to the song, and told the girls I had to go inside to use the bathroom, but I think Mindy may have seen the tears because it looked like she was about to start crying also.

After composing myself, I returned and we (Mindy and I) both acted like nothing had happened, but Mindy again gave me a hug before they left. I don’t think Sara had any idea anything had happened.

I found myself really looking forward to the days Mindy and Sara – and especially Mindy by herself – could come over. I couldn’t explain it, but while I really liked both Mindy and Sara, I always felt more comfortable with Mindy.

Mindy just seemed so much more mature than her age would otherwise have dictated.

I chalked that up to her dedication to her studies in school.

I would also constantly tease Mindy about being a geek and nerd, since her grades in school were so exceptional! She had the cutest grin when I would tease her!