One of the most positive-minded people I ever knew was Estelle DuBose, a good friend and client from my days in the insurance business in Phoenix. While clearing out her deceased mother’s home in Texas, Estelle was bitten by a rattlesnake. She came home and told me, “It was the best thing!”

Turns out, when she was taken to the ER, a visiting physician happened to be an expert in snake bites, and he was in charge of treating her. The following week when a five year-old child was bitten by a rattlesnake, all the folks in the ER knew exactly what to do.

In the throes of getting my divorce, selling my house, and moving to Seattle, I was plagued by insomnia. The only place I could sleep was literally in church! I’d make it through the beginning of the service, but once the sermon started, I was out like a light. I know Reverend McKinley noticed because one day the title of the sermon was “On Sleeping in Church.” I didn’t hear a word of it.

I know Reverend McKinley noticed because that day, as I was leaving, I apologized to him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a smile. “Obviously you’re getting exactly what you need out of being here.”

Eventually, I spoke to Estelle about what was going on, saying that things were so bad I couldn’t even pray about it. She said, in her delightful south Texas drawl. “I’ll tell you what. You pray for the little things—for whatever you need to get you through the day. I’ll pray for the big things—I’ll pray to see you in your perfect place.”

Eventually things sorted themselves out. I was able to load up the U-Haul trailer and move to Seattle where I continued working for the same insurance company in an office located at Sixth and Stewart. One of my friends there, was a guy named Arthur B. Cook. He was probably ten years older than I was. We sometimes grabbed a cup of coffee in the café downstairs (The only Starbucks back then was their storefront near Pike Place Market!) and occasionally grabbed lunch together, also downstairs.

By the way, during the ten years I worked for the Equitable Life Assurance Society, no one ever made a pass at me—not once, and that includes Arthur B. Cook!

I made a living selling life insurance, but writing was what I had always wanted to do. Eventually that became a possibility, and when I told Art, he was nothing short of encouraging and told me to go for it.

When I wrote Until Proven Guilty, the main character was a guy born during the course of World War II to a mother who’d been pregnant with him when his father, her fiancé, died in a motorcycle accident. When it came time to name him, I gave him the last name of Beaumont after the name of the town in Texas where his deceased father had been born. Why did I do that? Because that’s where Estelle Dubose was born, too!

When the book was published in 1985, I went through my rolodex (Yes, those were a thing back then!) and invited everyone I knew to the grand opening signing, including people from work.

Naturally, Art, who had been one of my cheerleaders, bought a copy of the book and took it home. When his wife, Muriel, read it, she hit the roof. Turns out the B. in Arthur B. Cook’s name stood for Beaumont. It took several years of the four of us—Art and Muriel and Bill and me—going to lunch together to convince Muriel that absolutely nothing had been going on!

Both Estelle and Art are long departed now, but when it’s time to write a Beau book, here in my perfect place, I feel as though they’re both walking with me, because that’s what hiding in J.P. Beaumont’s name—a whole lot of the author’s personal history.

PS