The Plan

“Tragic, romantic, full of heartbreak and hope,
The Plan
will sweep you off your feet. It's a tender story of love and loss and one woman's discovery of her untapped courage. Claire Matthews, the novel's infinitely relatable heroine, comes to understand that every life comes with its own set of challenges, but by trusting that she is part of a larger plan, she can find her voice and the strength to love again.”

—M
ELISSA
D
E
C
ARLO
,
author of
The Art of Crash Landing

For my Mimi, Mary Terpak,

who loved to read, as I sat beside her,

and thought I was the funniest person she knew.

She would've gotten such a kick out of all this.

Though
The Plan
is my second novel, it's actually the beginning of my writing journey. Many years ago, I wrote a screenplay and sent it to my now-agent, Sara Camilli. She signed me based on that screenplay, but suggested I turn it into a novel. Her words, “I love this story. I'm going to sell this story,” were the ones to which I held tight.
The Plan
is the novel based on that original work.

I would be remiss if I didn't thank my first writing group members: Mary Summerall, Kelly Atkins, Holly Joplin, Lisa Matthews and Ramona Kelly. They were the ones (and only ones, until my agent) who read the original screenplay for
The Plan
and encouraged me to keep going—even when the task of completing an entire script seemed daunting. Without them, I would have never finished the screenplay and without the screenplay, I would have had nothing to send to an agent.

My current writing group is invaluable to me. The advice, critiques and encouragement I receive from JC Conklin and Amy Bates are nearly always spot on. There've been times when I realized I had a problem in the middle of my story and hoped no one else would notice. They, of course, did notice and pointed out the issues right away. My frustration at the situation always quickly dissipated, however, when they'd then proceed to present a solution on how I might mend what was broken. Without them, I might still be banging my head against the proverbial wall.

My gratitude goes to Kim Kremer, who has happily proofread my last two books and barely complained about their length.

A special thanks to Dr. Sally Grogono, who not only delivered all three of my children, but excitedly assisted me in plotting a character's demise.

Special appreciation must be paid to Michael Kogan, whose expertise in prosthetics got the ball rolling on Callum's disability and what would be possible or impossible tasks for a trilateral amputee, when I, initially, had no idea.

I absolutely could not have completed this novel without the irreplaceable help of Bryan and Marijo Cuerrier. In my search to find information on what it's like to be a trilateral amputee, I came across videos on YouTube of Bryan and his journey. Through his website, I contacted him and, via email, he and his wife and I became great friends. To say I sent them a hundred emails with a thousand questions may be minimizing the amount. It was a thrill when they ultimately traveled from Canada to Texas and we were able to become friends in “real life,” too.

Though I've traveled to Ireland, I still needed help with the culture and language. Claire Ellenbogen was a lifesaver and it was wonderful to know that, no matter what question I had, she was a mere Facebook message away. And thank you to my Welsh penpal of over thirty years, Sonia Holmes, who, during only our second meeting in all these years, made the journey with me to Ireland and experienced the Cliffs of Moher alongside me.

I need to thank Zane and Charmaine Parker and the rest of those at Simon and Schuster for turning my books into actual novels—like fairy godmothers with magical wands.

Many thanks to Keith Saunders at Marion Designs. It never amazes me how I can explain to him what I imagine in a cover and he returns to me the precise vision in my head.

I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about building a website, a newsletter and creating a mailing list over the past few
years and I wouldn't have even known where to begin if not for Nichole Renée. The patience she exhibited toward her luddite friend was remarkable.

I know many believe Facebook and social media have weakened our personal connections with people, but I'm a believer in the complete opposite theory. The life of a writer is an isolating one and yet, each day perhaps—each hour—I correspond with a different friend who shares a word of encouragement or an anecdote or a personal story of their own. Those friendships (and all of you know who you are) make my time at my laptop considerably less lonely.

I am grateful to anyone who has ever attended one of my book signings or talks, whether they knew me or not, and said a kind word—or, at least, sat in the audience and appeared to be interested.

Immense thanks to my parents, Barbara and Richard Bennett, who not only encouraged my writing, but spent a whole lot of money for me to get that English degree.

My husband, Rob, deserves recognition for coming to terms with the fact that he is married to a woman who lives almost completely inside her own head and talks to people who aren't really in our house. My children, Jordan, Bennett and Maclain, have shared me with a dozen or more characters over the past few years, and so, when they've each said to me, in their own way, “I'm so proud of you, Mom,” I've had a difficult time not shedding a tear.

Not all of us are blessed to find their one true passion. I'm one of the lucky ones. It was when I encountered this unstoppable force that I knew I was where I belong.

Finally, I don't know what plan God has in store for my life, and I may not understand it until the very end, but I find peace in trusting that He does, indeed, have one.

Ireland, 1973

“Something's wrong with the baby!”

Patrick sighed and gripped the steering wheel more tightly. The rain was coming down as if all of God's angels were dumping buckets from the sky. Barely able to see the car in front of him, he was struggling to keep the vehicle on the road—to even
see
the road. Though generally a patient man, Patrick didn't have the energy to give in to Nora's dramatics.

“Nothing is wrong with the baby, me love,” he said, with all the calmness he could muster. “Everything's just fine.” He glanced over and offered his wife a gentle smile, then quickly turned his attention back to his driving. He should've known it would be raining on the night his child was to be born. After all, this was Ireland. Was it not always raining?

“No, I mean it,” Nora said, through clenched teeth. Her knuckles were so white, they were turning blue as she squeezed the armrest on the car door and arched her back, while a labour pain ripped through her. “Something's wrong. I can feel it,” she gasped.

“What you feel is labour,” Patrick said, smiling slightly. “It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with the baby. It just means he's ready to make his entrance into this world.”

Nora was known, to him and their whole family—and perhaps, to their entire village—to exaggerate events. It was the single thing he
simultaneously loved most about her and also loathed. An odd thing to love, he recognized, but Nora's extravagant stories always made her the life of any party or gathering.

Nora had a way with words. She often said the more miserable a situation, the better a story it would make later. And, he had to admit, in her case, she was right.

So, it came as no surprise to Patrick that the birth of their baby was, in Nora's eyes, bound to be wrought with drama. He had no doubt, though, their little boy—Callum, as he was to be named—would enter this world with little to no difficulty. Nora had experienced the best medical care available in Ireland. Patrick had made certain of that. There were many perks to being a Senator, a member of Seanad Eireann, and he'd taken advantage of every connection he had. His wife and baby were going to have the best medical care in all of Ireland. Blinking hard, trying to see through the downpour of rain, Patrick was beginning to wonder why he hadn't used some of that power to ensure a driver to take them to the hospital tonight. For all of his prepping and planning, the detail of who would drive them to the hospital had never crossed his mind. Once she'd regained her composure, Nora spoke again.

“Patrick, listen to me. I am serious. This isn't one of my stories this time. Something is wrong with the baby.”

“Why, me love, would you even think such a thing?” Patrick said, checking his rearview mirror. “You've had all the tests. He's perfect. Just perfect. The doctors say nothing is wrong with him.”

Patrick smiled as he used the word “him.” In actuality, Nora and he had not been told they were having a little boy. There was really no way to know until the lad made his appearance into this world. But, in their hearts, both of them just knew this child was a boy. They were so certain, in fact, they hadn't even discussed girls' names.

Nora sighed deeply and looked out her window into the dark, unceasing
rain. “I know there's something wrong, because…I had a dream.”

The words made Patrick catch his breath.
A dream?
There were four things in life that Patrick took seriously and without question. God, death, taxes—and dreams.

Years ago, on the night his baby brother died, Patrick had learned the power of dreams. Many people wrote off dreams as nothing more than figments of one's imagination. But Patrick knew better. A dream was a sign from God.

Keeping his voice calm for Nora's sake, he said, “What do you mean, you had a dream?” He quickly looked at Nora, trying to offer her a reassuring glance, before returning his eyes back to the road. “Last night,” Nora said, beginning to breathe more rapidly as pain began to rise in her body, “I dreamt you and I and our baby were in the park…” The words trailed off as Nora gasped and let out another, what seemed to Patrick's ears, inhuman wail.

“The park?” said Patrick, speaking soothingly to Nora, as she panted in agony. “The park sounds lovely. I like the thought of a family day in the park. What else happened?”

Nora's breathing evened out again. “We were at the park and you were pushing our boy on a swing. I was setting up a picnic at a table, not too far away. I could see your back, and I could see the swing going up and down, but I couldn't see the baby. I called your name, to tell you and Callum to come and eat.”

Patrick smiled. Despite the dread he felt over what was to come in the dream, he couldn't help but feel warmth at the sound of their son's name. Callum. A name which meant
dove.
Some might not find it a strong name, but Patrick, a politician and, above all else, an Irishman, was hopeful that a shift was finally here for Ireland. The violence and riots of the past years had taken a toll on Patrick, and, of course, his country. It was time for a new beginning. And what better way
to acknowledge that he, himself, was ready for that change than by naming his first-born son after a bird that symbolized peace?

Patrick had such dreams for his child, this boy he had yet to meet. A boy who would have hair as black as Kilkenny coal and eyes as blue as the summer sky. If Patrick had thought about it long enough, he'd have recognized the child he was imagining was an identical version of the brother he'd lost so long ago. But, he never did think about it long enough. He was a man who tried to never look back. And for the past nine months, Patrick's eyes had been set on the little boy who was about to arrive. Oh, Patrick had great plans for his son. He would, of course, be beautiful. How could he be anything but gorgeous, being born from a mother as stunning as Nora? Even at the age of thirty, she was as breathtaking as she'd been when he'd met her at eighteen. No, Nora never aged. Patrick wished the same could be said of himself. The years, and his stressful career, had taken a toll on him and he looked much older than his forty-two years. It wasn't uncommon for a stranger to inquire about whether or not Nora was his daughter. But as long as Nora found him attractive and still wanted to be with him, it didn't matter to him at all how he was aging. Though he did hope a son would help keep him young. Patrick didn't know what was in store for Callum, but he somehow knew—call it intuition—his boy was to be unique.