Counselor of the Beach by Pamela Dolores Bastien by Koehler Books

ISBN 978-1-63393-760-4

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters may be both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue, and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. A portion of the proceeds go to Team Leader—Russ Philstrom 21175 County Rd 1 Emily, MN 56447

SERVING MINNESOTA’S MOST VULNERABLE VETERANS

Facebook/homelessandwoundedwarriors-mn www.homelessandwoundedwarriors-mn.org

köehlerbooks

Review Copy: This is an advanced printing subject to corrections and revisions.

köehlerbooks

Published by

köehlerbooks köehlerbooks

210 60th Street Virginia Beach, VA 23451 800-435-4811 www.koehlerbooks.com

köehlerbooks TM

Counselor of the Beach Pamela Dolores Bastien kรถehlerbooks kรถehlerbooks kรถehlerbooks kรถehlerbooks

kรถehlerbooks TM

VIRGINIA BEACH CAPE CHARLES

Dedication Greg, you believed in me. See you in the wind. Love you forever. And, of course, to the kids and grandkids and my dear friends.

Prologue AFTER THIRTY-FIVE YEARS as a shrink, I was not done in by my patients. No, it was technology that forced my hand. My entire work life, I typed my case files and my books on an old IBM electric, handwrote my own appointments in my appointment book, and basically ran my business with phone calls and personal visits. My life was sedate and sometimes mildly interesting until all hell broke loose. I, seemingly overnight, became a media darling, appearing on several talk shows—including Oprah. Small-town Minnesota girl became an uptown star. I had to hire a full-time secretary, who insisted she could not work in a non-tech environment. Melissa was a fledgling twentythree-year old who had never used an IBM typewriter. She did everything she could to help me “modernize,” which, of course, I resisted. After a couple weeks of my passive-aggressiveness, my young helper went screaming and crying out of my office, threatening to become one of my patients. She tried to show me how to “boot” up and shut down a computer, how to send and receive emails, and how to do something called “Skype” with distant patients. I would politely nod, pretend to listen and then nuzzle my IBM, which Melissa concluded anchored me in the past.

COUNSELOR OF THE BEACH

The final straw was one morning when I came to work—my IBM was gone. My dear helper had it hauled out before I got there. “Melissa Darling, I will give you a month’s pay, and an excellent reference, but first you must find my typewriter,” I scolded. The woman, nearly in tears, confessed that she had sold it to a guy walking down the street carrying an empty wine bottle. He put the machine in his cart and took off. She had paid him ten dollars out of petty cash to take it off her hands. I was tempted to start streetwalking and find my beloved machine but decided instead it was time to retire, just as my IBM had. I was now even more petulant—no Palm Pilots, iPods, iPads, DVDs, Bluetooth, texting or Tweeting for me. Despite my degrees in psychology and psychiatry, I was too embarrassed to ask my children and grandchildren what the heck these various things were. All I cared to know was that I wanted nothing to do with them. I decided to play to my strengths and thought perhaps I might become a consultant to “non-tech” people such as myself. There surely were some, I concluded. But my grandson burst that bubble. “Grandma, everyone knows how to run a computer,” he admonished. Of course, he was right. I might have been in denial, but I wasn’t delusional. Everybody was Tweeting or texting or whatever. So, I decided to withdraw from the high-tech clamor and retire to my small beach house in Naples where I could live in technological obscurity. There, I could take up macramé or underwater basket weaving and write letters to friends— longhand. My family was ecstatic. Grandma permanently in Florida! Free Florida vacations! Better yet, no more worrying about me leaving my office on a busy Minneapolis street that had gotten a bad rep for street crime. They wanted me to relax and take care of myself instead of my patients—and them. I would learn how to cook something besides hamburger disasters. Walk and lose that extra thirty pounds. Maybe quit smoking and drinking tequila shots with my other tequila drinking buddies. Become a real grandma instead of a traveling shrink consulting with organizations around the country. With so much positive support, there was nothing else to do but sell my Minneapolis condo, pack up my yellow Ford

PAMELA DOLORES BASTIEN

Mustang convertible, and drive to Naples. The method of my retreat triggered yet another family crisis. “You can’t drive to Florida by yourself! You might be attacked, raped, killed, and worst of all robbed,” the kids bellowed. I shooed them away, saying simply, “Goodbye, darlings.” Melissa was clingy, too. She wanted to tag along on the ride and then, maybe, be my private secretary. “Goodbye, darling,” I said.

Chapter One I OFTEN WONDERED HOW I, super-shrink, ended up alone at age fifty-five. I pondered my dating profile on my solo drive south. Overweight, plump, but not homely. Nice hair and skin, good teeth, financially independent, nice apartment, educated, doesn’t swear too much, decent breasts. Not too much unwanted facial hair, rather large nose, but nose hairs nicely trimmed. Described as cute, and intelligent. And fun, especially when tequila induced. I concluded that I had become a plumber with a leaky sink at home. While I could help other people solve their relationship failings and problems, I never really saw through my own emotional quagmire. With the Naples beach and a spare IBM typewriter awaiting me, I’d have plenty of time to figure things out. My love life had good weight for another shrink. I talked to my friends a few times about my relationship problems, but they threw up their arms in disgust with comments like, “How could you get involved with someone like that?” or “How could you throw something like that away?” or “How do you go without love and affection (sex, too) for such long periods of time?”

PAMELA DOLORES BASTIEN

or “How can you help other people when you can’t even help yourself?” Or, finally, “Try HarmoniousRelationship.com!” Computers again! Forget it. I would rather suffer alone in Naples. I started out from southwestern Minnesota after saying goodbye to friends and family, who were smiling when I left, rather than crying. Like “She’s finally leaving!” I wanted to internalize this but decided, To hell with them, I’m off. I AM FREE! Little did I know they were all checking plane ticket prices to plan their trips to Naples. The kids and grandkids often asked how I came to be on my own. I skirted the issue, simply saying that I chose to do so. The truth is that some of my aloneness was self-inflicted by lousy choices. My first “bad” choice was tall to my short, and blond to my brown hair. He played basketball and went into construction after high school. I went away to Harvard. When I moved back to Minnesota, we were both in our mid-twenties going through a “my biological clock is ticking” deal. Many of our mutual friends had married and the pressure was on from both families. So, construction guy and I did the same, starting a life together in Minneapolis and hatching two beautiful children. All was good for a while until we realized we were bored with each other and both wondering, Is this all there is to this? We divorced just like we got married—in friendly fashion. Lucky us, though, we had beautiful children who made beautiful grandchildren. His love life turned out better than mine. He found love again. Sadly, he got a quick-killing cancer and departed earth a month later. His life was much more of a success in relationships than mine. After the divorce, the children and I struggled along in a small apartment north of Minneapolis. They loved going to their father’s house when he was alive; it was much more fun than living with a strict workaholic. It was while the kids, Lance and Gigi, were with their dad that I met man-disaster number two. He lived down the hallway, and I think out of sheer sex drive or loneliness we ended up sneaking back and forth to each other’s apartment. We would

COUNSELOR OF THE BEACH

run into each other in the hall, and he would call me a “shrink” in a derogatory tone, and I would say, “You need one.” My mom would visit and clean my messy apartment and roll my towels and complain, “Your children need good meals to grow up right.” Twelve and thirteen-hour days driving around the city and trying to establish my one-woman practice didn’t leave much time for the “cleanliness is next to godliness” mentality. Mom’s point of view on my man toy down the hall was, “You will end up with that man because there is tension between you.” Was that ever an understatement. It turns out that my man friend had a friend of his own—a thin and pretty thing who stopped by his place when I was away. He said the girly friend came over to discuss business—yeah, monkey business. But I believed him. His two-timing went on and off several years. All my friends and family knew I was in denial and that my guy was a cheating ass. Yes, he was a charmer, with flowers, dinner dates and occasional romantic trips. But he was also doing the same with his girly friend and others. My hand was forced, in part because my kids’ father died from a fast-acting cancer. Suddenly, their only home was our apartment. My shrink—yes, shrinks have shrinks—made me say, “Goodbye, creep.” It was like washing lice out of my hair. Heart pounding, I dumped him for good, and me and the kids promptly moved to another apartment building. The kids cheered because there was a pool, but I think they were also cheering because I got rid of the creep. I wised up some and raised Lance and Gigi into productive adults who moved out and on to their own lives. I was alone a long time. Friends tried to match me up with their friends, but my sister said I always had this aura that said, “Leave me alone.” Then a fellow shrink friend did me in by setting me up with one of her rejects—a guy “closer to my age.” Stinker! She said he sounded perfect for me. Well, I was tired of going out to eat by myself or as a third wheel with other couples. I told her to tell her friend to give me a call. He did a week or so later. We had instant rapport on the phone—no texts or Tweets. We talked about my favorite subject—food. He was funny, with a gravelly

PAMELA DOLORES BASTIEN

voice and a sense of humor that would knock your socks off. I liked his name, too—Geoff. His first question: “Do you like seafood?” Of course, I love it, so we met at one of the finest seafood restaurants in Eagan. We met there in case one of us wanted to ditch and run. Geoff was perfect! And he thought I was perfect. He liked women with “meat on their bones,” and we met at many romantic and lovely restaurants in the following weeks. He danced like a dream, made love like a dream, and was funny. And as my best friend, Lara, would say, “He’s really good-looking.” Everyone noticed, even my patients, that I had a sparkle in my eye. I was in love with him and the world. We took trips to romantic bed and breakfasts, Niagara Falls, and Itasca State Park. He made me feel beautiful and sexy, and wanted. My friends got mad because I never saw them anymore. My family was sick of me chattering about him. My dad’s question was, “What does he do?” Geoff was a talented man managing a nice condominium complex on Lake Minnetonka. We talked about retiring someday, buying a motor home and traveling. But alas my wonderful man gave me a choice. He got a job managing exclusive condos in Naples, and he wanted me to move with him. I was established, consulting all over the US, and my family was in Minnesota—everyone. I told Mr. Right I couldn’t move to Naples, that I couldn’t abandon Lance and Gigi, my grandkids, my parents, my shrink practice. “Goodbye, darling!” And that was it. Geoff was gone like cigarette smoke. The smell still lingering, but no more smoke. I was bereft. Every day for a year I woke up wondering what happened. Every song on the radio made me cry. My friends got pissed and sick of me. So did my family. Dad said, “He got away, huh?” Finally, after a year, I realized he was not going to call me. So I did what I do when hurting—I threw myself into work and appeared on talk shows as one of the most “successful woman shrinks in the old USA.” The good thing about it was that I got a fancy makeup job for my regular TV appearances, which brought me lots of wellheeled clients. The extra money provided the wherewithal to fly to Naples but not look him up—or so I told myself. I found a lovely

COUNSELOR OF THE BEACH

old three-bedroom house on the beach. It was quaint and had murals painted on the outside, stucco. It also had a yard growing wildly. I cleaned it and hired a nice young yard man, all in two weeks. I had plans of being a snowbird. Instead, I only made two trips to Naples in four years, too busy again for any fun. I wanted to look him up. But I could be stubborn, and besides, he was probably married to a beautiful blond, willowy, firm-breasted woman and it would only be embarrassing. So, there I was, alone again, but this time in a warmer climate.

Chapter Two THE DRIVE FROM MINNEAPOLIS was uneventful but tiring. I had lots of quiet time to dwell on past mistakes and future possibilities. I quickly settled in my colorful house, everything neat and clean. I immediately was drawn to my IBM, ready to pour my thoughts onto its keys. I had written nineteen books about relationships, phobias, eating disorders, peer pressure, and various social norms on these old IBMs. Those keys knew me better than any friend or person. So, there I was in Naples, retired after thirty-five years of consulting, shrinking, curing, helping, and failures. NOW WHAT? I was colleged out, didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel like joining Curves or taking underwater basket weaving or playing gin rummy or shuffleboard. Travel? Drink? Drinking tequila alone was lonely! You couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get into those lively, drunken conversations that went on for hours when by yourself. Call the old boyfriend? Nah, he has forgotten me by now. You could only go to the Phil, walk on the beach and eat out so much by yourself. All my friends and family were probably gleeful up in Minnesota that the old bag was gone. So, morosely, I dragged my beach chair out to the sand and started thinking about writing a novel. God knew I had enough true stories to support a book of fiction.

COUNSELOR OF THE BEACH

As I explored the possibilities, a new career dropped right down in front of me. I heard this oomph and a breathless gasp and looked up. A beautiful, too-thin, twenty-something blonde had collapsed right in front of me. “Are you okay?” I asked. She just breathed and said, “No, lady, I am not okay!” I said to her, “What is wrong. Do you need a doctor?” “Yes, I do. I need a shrink.” Oh goody, I thought. This I can help with! “Well, you are in luck; I am a shrink!” She stood up abruptly and shouted, “I am not crazy, and do NOT NEED A SHRINK!” Other people on the public beach stared at us, thinking we were having a fight. Oh good, something to watch besides the dolphins. I stood, quite a chore from one of those low beach chairs. You kind of had to roll out on your knees and then stand, butt in the air. I said, “I can help you. Please stay and talk to me.” She must have weighed about eighty-five pounds, numbers I hadn’t seen on a scale since I was seven. She had to be a size one to three, something I never knew. I went from a girl’s fourteen to a woman’s size ten. Oh wait, one time, at my sister’s wedding, I stuffed myself into a seven for the wedding. Creep Man II, the all-time gawker at pretty women with big chests, stated, “You have yourself stuffed into that dress and it’s pushing your boobs up and everyone is looking.” My brothers were embarrassed, and I kept my hand over my chest the rest of the night. Looking at this beautiful young girl, I knew instantly she was suffering from anorexia nervosa, a killer of the likes of Karen Carpenter. I specialized in this unfathomable disease for many years. I said, “Sit down and talk to me.” She ran off shouting, “Leave me alone!” “I will be here every day at this time. Come back.” She ran away from me, frightened, stopped, looked back, and kept running. I was devastated. Thirty-five years of shrinking and someone fell right in front of me and I couldn’t help her. I picked up my chair and slinked away from the beach with people staring at me, thinking, I will never come to this beach again! Oh, what

PAMELA DOLORES BASTIEN

a success my life is! Back in my colorful house, I shut myself in my room and cried. A frumpy, lonely, career woman no one wanted around. What a large pity pot I fell into. I dragged myself out to the kitchen and once again cooked up one of my favorite hamburger disasters and sat in front of the tube, watching Lust and the Law and eating and crying, and thought, What now? Well, the next day I was sick of myself, and I did promise that I would be in the same spot on the beach every day. Maybe she would come back, seeing some compassion in my red brown eyes. I went there every day for five days and thought, What the hell! I am going back to Minnesota to make my kids and grandkids miserable. Finally, on the fifth day, she walked up and sat facing away from me. Bones stuck out of her too-thin back. I said, “You came back.” “What does it look like? I couldn’t come sooner because I work.” “Where do you work?” I asked. “I am a personal coach at one of the local get-in-shape places.” I decided not to shrink her but just get her to talk to me. Hell, who has more problems, her or me? I said, “I am sad and lonely.” “Me, too.” I told her my sad story, which made her laugh. She asked me what I was doing in Naples. I said that I had bought a house here out of revenge, hoping to rub it in dream lover’s face, but hadn’t seen him for four years, so the revenge part was kind of wearing off. I asked her what she was doing in Naples. She said she grew up here, but her mom and dad got divorced, her mom ran off to Europe to mope, and her dad married his very young secretary. She told me she got mad and moved out and got her own place out in Lehigh and drove in for work every day. She never saw her dad or mom. I saw she was getting sad, so I talked about getting frumpy old me into shape at her place of work. She laughed. “It will take a while, but why don’t you come in tomorrow and we will get started?” She told me where she worked and said she had to get back, working every day from noon to eight because the rich people

COUNSELOR OF THE BEACH

didn’t like to rush in the morning. We made a date for me to come in at two thirty. “We are still going to meet in the morning, too, right?” I asked desperately. “Of course, lady shrink. We’re friends now.”

•••

My new friend’s name was Ashley Kingston, and I saw her the next day. She walked up as I was reading on beach and asked, “Don’t you ever do anything but read?” “Do you ever read?” That became the tone of our friendship, similar to a mother and teenage daughter—grudging, sarcastic, and at times sincere. She admitted that she hated to read and wondered why I read so much. “To escape,” I said. “Good job, shrink!” “What’s wrong with escaping?” I said. “Sometimes escaping reality can be a bad thing, like for you!” “What?” I replied. “How can reading be bad for me?” “You never look at the beach; look at the beauty in front of you. Here you are, sitting on the most beautiful beach in the world, and you never even look at it! Why did you even move here?” I was quiet for a moment, looking out at the green-blue waters of the Gulf and realizing I had never appreciated the beauty she was talking about. It was a rude awakening. Why haven’t I been looking at the beauty around me? I asked her why she came to the beach every day. She said to exercise in a beautiful setting helped her escape reality. I promised her that I would leave my books at home for a week. “Hey,” I said. “Go to work. I have enough insights for today. See you at two thirty.” What in the world have I got myself into here? I hated exercising with a passion. Walking from my chair to the kitchen or to my desk was plenty of exercise for me. Or as my dream lover, Geoff, used to say, “What we need is a good brisk sit!” Well, she collapsed in front of me, so it was really my duty to develop this relationship. I had shrinking to do, obviously.

PAMELA DOLORES BASTIEN

After a little lunch of hot chicken wings and a big salad (starting my new diet), it was time to bite the bullet and head to the “get-thin-by-torture” gym. I was pleased that Ashley was waiting for me, but that soon ended. She was like a drill sergeant putting a poor wreck of a soldier through her paces. First, I had to fill out a contract for six months and shell out a pretty penny. Next, I had to do a huge survey with questions like, “How often do you exercise?” That was easy: never! “When did you last have a full physical?” When I was born? “How many servings of fruit do you have a day?” I hate fruit unless it is in a drink with an umbrella! “Why are you here?” Now, that is a mystery, especially to me! And on and on. At the end Ashley figured up my score. Almost negative. She sighed. “We really have our work cut out for us.” “That sounds like I’m going to have to leave and break this silly contract.” “How can you get revenge on your ex-dream lover looking like you do?” I thought, I want nothing to do with this sassy girl who needs shrinking! Our next step was to measure every fatty part of my body. Ashly pointed to my 38Cs. “Those are mostly fat, too, and will be the first part to shrink when I get done with you! Wow, you have a large frame for being so short.” “There,” I said. “That is why I can carry so much weight and still look good.” She glanced at me in amazement. Then she measured my ankle and calculated things out, and guess what? “Your fat content is 38 percent.” “Well, that is no surprise to me,” I said. Ashley said, “Yep, but it is supposed to be 29 percent!” “So, Ashley, what is your fat content?” She very professionally stated, “We are working on your body, not mine!” Humph, I thought. What is happening here? I was supposed to be shrinking this young lady’s psyche. Next step was to talk about how to exercise and how often, and then to go over a sheet

COUNSELOR OF THE BEACH

with a week’s diet planned out. Now I have to go to the grocery store! “Ashley, I thought I was here to exercise, not dissect every portion of my fat into little pieces.” “Your session will begin tomorrow, then every other day for one hour a day. In the meantime, Lady Shrink, you go get your groceries, and we will start your personal training session tomorrow.” “I will plan my diet out, but you have to eat lunch with me every day at the beach according to this diet.” How smart I am! Not only would I have company for lunch every day, but Ashley might start eating. She stated that was not going to happen; she didn’t eat with anyone. “That is not fair, Ashley. You are torturing me into this diet and exercise routine and you will not even keep an old lady company while she eats her bean sprouts.” “We will see,” she said. “Let me think about it.” I took my recipe for no fun eating anymore to the nearby grocery store, fighting the crowds and having to walk half a block to get to the store. I was out of breath by the time I got there. I then saw the large Two-Ton-Tilly scale in the front lobby and thought, Okay, I will weigh myself. I guiltily got on. Looking around to make sure no one could see, I gasped. I really do weigh 190 pounds! I stepped off and thought, Why do they have a scale before you go in and buy groceries? I spent a long time in the fresh fruit and vegetable section thinking how lucky I was to have a hefty bank account. How do families afford this healthy stuff? I looked for any fruit on the list and finally found kiwi, which sounded more interesting than an apple. Asparagus, yum, I like that. No-fat cottage cheese, some soft brie (low fat of course), then skim milk, and some healthy cereal with kashi in it. That’s expensive, too. Then spinach lettuce, Italian tomatoes, fresh green and red peppers, and then I went past the bakery section and on to my favorite aisle, bread! Oops, no bread on this list; how is the sandwich kid going to do without bread! And no ice cream? Please let me get by the little miniature dark chocolate lovey bars. My safety net was

PAMELA DOLORES BASTIEN

going out the window, and worst of all, no hamburger for my hamburger disaster dishes. And no dips or chips! No mayo, but at least mustard was still acceptable. Get past the candy bars. Is sugar-free gum acceptable? And what do I drink? No booze? Not even one shot of liquid gold tequila? I can’t do this. Oh, I must do this for Ashley. Home I went, and I even walked out and watched the sunset after a meal of vegetables and grilled pan chicken that I overgrilled and so instead had to open a can of cold tuna. Ick! The kids called while I was out watching the sunset and thinking, What the heck have I got into? I breezily called the kids back. “I was out watching the sunset after a delicious meal of tuna and salad.” There was silence on the phone. “And I joined an exercise club today.” “Mom, are you okay? Do you need us to come down there? Do you have cancer? Are you depressed?” “Because I want to diet and exercise that means I am depressed?” “Well, Mom, how can I put this without hurting your feelings? We have tried to get you to diet and exercise for years, and to stop smoking and drinking. You are the only parent we have, so why now?” “Because I am sick of you all nagging at me about it, so I am going to make the leap, and then what will come up?” “Well, Mom, now that you bring it up, your smoking is killing you.” “Please,” I said. “One big leap at a time!” “Mom, what about your bumps of tequila?” “Well, my darling, it is not fun without Geoff anymore anyway.” “Mom, are you still moping about Geoff? When are you going to give up on that, and get on with your life?” “I am getting on with my life, Gigi, daughter of mine. Get off of it!” “We better come down. I’m worried about you.” When did the child become the parent?

COUNSELOR OF THE BEACH

“Gotta go, darling daughter, someone at the door!” I heard her saying, “Who, who” like an owl while I hung up. Well, there I was, alone without my nightly shot of golden liquid or pigging out on my buttery popcorn with real butter. I looked at my snack list. Hmmmmm, a piece of fruit? Forget it! I’m going to bed to read, so there, Ashley! I hope you’re thinking about how I can help you.

Minnesota Psychiatrist Bethany Wade retires and moves to the peace and supposed quiet of Naples, Florida. But she soon finds that her work is not done, and people now look to her for free advice. Bethany becomes their wacky life-of-the-party girl, complete with her love for tequila, cigarettes and food. In her pursuit of finding happiness, she finds that she can also lead others to that special place of love, friendship and joy. And by helping them, she in turn finds love again.

Pamela Bastien is retired from a career in the office arena, and is a non-combat veteran serving four years in the U.S. Navy as a hospitalcorpman, and seventeen years in the Minnesota Army National Guard. This is her first published novel. She and her husband spent many years in Naples, Florida, managing condominiums. Her husband was a Vietnam combat veteran and died in 2015 from exposure to Agent Orange in Vietnam. She now spends time traveling and spending time with her three children and seven grandchildren. She also volunteers for the Brainerd International Speedway and for the Veterans.

köehlerbooks FICTION: Women A portion of the proceeds go to Homeless & Wounded Warriors-MN SERVING MINNESOTA’S MOST VULNERABLE VETERANS

köehlerbooks köehlerbooks $18.95 köehlerbooks