No Tomorrows: A Novel for Today

Amazon Reviews

of

Previous Books

The Master’s Inn

Kay DiBianca, Dec. 2022

When three troubled families find themselves isolated in a Bed & Breakfast during a serious blizzard, the tragedies they've allowed to rule their lives become evident. Deb Gorman has written a powerful story of characters who help one another face their past failures and find forgiveness and hope for the future. A worthwhile book for our unsettled world.

Who Are These People?

Sandy Allen, Dec. 2016

Vivid, well-written stories about lesser-known Biblical characters. The author's reflections add depth, while the study/discussion questions challenge readers to examine themselves and seek God's will for their lives. I enjoyed this book, and will add it to my read again list.

Who Are These People, Book 2

J. A. McPhail, June 2022

Deb Gorman has such a gift for taking minor Bible characters and making their lives relevant for today. With great skill she digs into the unwritten story behind a barely-mentioned person in the Bible, and puts the reader into their mind and life. Then she turns the tables by sharing her own story and what she learned in the writing. She also asks the hard questions concerning how the reader may relate to the character’s dilemma and interaction with Jesus himself. Who are These People? is a fantastic devotional read taken and digested one chapter a time.

Leaving Your Lover

J. A. McPhail, Oct. 2020

The title gave me pause. Do I want to read a Christian book about leaving a lover? But it’s the line underneath the beautifully scripted title that tells what is waiting inside the covers of this amazing book—They have left the path of truth . . . If you want to experience a fresh and exciting way to make the Bible come alive in your heart and mind, don’t hesitate to read Leaving Your Lover by Deb Gorman.

NO TOMORROWS ©2023 by Deb Gorman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No AI was used in research for the story or in the creation of the story.

Edited by Dori Harrell, Breakout Editing

Cover design by Emilie Haney

Author’s photograph by Ric Brunstetter, RBIII Studios

Formatting by Colleen Jones

ISBN 978-0-9979587-8-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9979587-9-9 (Digital)

Published by Deb Gorman

Debo Publishing

https://debggorman.com/

For Holly . . .

I’ll see you tomorrow, my sweet sister.

Do not boast about tomorrow,

for you do not know what a day may bring forth.

Proverbs 27:1 (nkjv)

One today is worth two tomorrows.

— Benjamin Franklin

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It’s hard to remember at the end of the journey all those helpful folks who kicked rocks out of my way, patched a skinned knee, picked me up and dusted me off when I careened off the beaten path, or stood on the sidelines cheering me on. There have been so many.

I thank my God—who has never left me behind, never let me get ahead of Him, and always answers when I call.

I thank my supportive husband, my kids and grandkids, my father, and innumerable friends who encourage my wild, hairy ideas—then rein me in so I can get it all tied up in the pages of a book.

I thank my team—my wonderful editor and cover designer—who have both been with me since the first book was born.

I’ve had many, many mentors who have taught me much about the craft of writing. I wish I could name them all, but I’d leave someone out for sure. You know who you are.

And . . . yes, you guessed it . . . I can’t leave off without thanking the characters in this story, who first lived in my head and then in my heart. They are as real to me as some real people I know.

And they always will be.

Deb Gorman

1

The woman in the mirror tormented her. She stepped back and turned off the light.

Now the woman in the mirror was a frightening shadow, right index finger outstretched, pinning her to guilt.

Of course. It was Thursday.

Annie turned the light back on.

She gasped. The image was herself, but decades older. Face sagging, eyes unnaturally black and unlit, hair sparse and gray, wrinkled hands trembling at her waist.

She needed to stop this madness now, before she became her reflection.

She turned, throwing one last glance at the mirror, losing her breath because the woman in the mirror had not moved.

She locked eyes with herself, then turned and headed to the stairs and dinner with her husband and four children.

Annie Lee reached the bottom of the staircase and glanced at the front door. She heard an odd scratching noise. It wasn’t Max wanting in, because he sat across the living room staring at her, tail thumping the carpet.

What was that sound? Gripping the handrail with shaky fingers, she cocked her head and listened. Nothing.

She sagged against the wall. Annie always hoped it would be different, that the dread wouldn’t return just because it was Thursday, but she knew what she’d heard. It had slithered in again, and she’d have to confront it before the night was over.

Thursdays were always the same.

Annie let go of the stair railing, smoothed her hair, and tiptoed toward the dining room. She heard the banter and managed to relax and smile as she heard Roger perform his impression of Roadrunner for the kids. She paused to listen.

Her grin broadened at Kimmie’s high-pitched voice. But why does he beep, Daddy?

Hands clasped together to stop the tremble, Annie continued to the dining room, where her husband and four children waited. Before entering, she stopped at her collection of porcelain monarch butterflies and straightened one. Touching the beautiful creature settled her nerves.

The food was already on the table, and Annie threw Roger a grateful glance.

He stood and pulled her chair out. There you are. What took you so long?

She paused to master the shake in her voice. Doesn’t matter. I’m here now.

After the blessing, Annie started the mashed potatoes around the table. How was your day, kids? Anything interesting happen?

She asked the same question at dinner every night, never sure what she was getting herself into. Sometimes just blank stares, but other times their comedic creativity flowed.

Like the time a couple of years ago when Hank wove a long story of skipping school and going to the casino with his best friend, Shane. She had to give him an A+ for imagination.

Or when Kymber—Kimmie for short—said school was exciting that day because Elvis had visited. The family had watched a documentary of his life and music the night before, and evidently the seven-year-old had forgotten the part about Elvis having died decades ago.

And then there was Mayra, who had her own imaginative stories—but her fierce teenaged sophistication prevented her from sharing them. Instead, she’d perfected sarcasm to an art form.

It didn’t matter to Annie, as long as she asked the question that had become part of her nightly routine. It was like stamping a smiley face on the end of the day, giving tomorrow permission to begin.

Outside, a car horn blared in their central Washington cul-de-sac. Annie and Roger jumped at the sound, but Max didn’t even bark. The huge black Lab sat, as he did every night, at the corner of the table between Hank, almost thirteen, and Roger. Max’s head topped the table by three inches, tongue hanging out, drooling at the smell of grilled pork chops.

They’d gotten Max seven years ago from a nearby shelter when he was a floppy-eared six-month-old pup with gigantic feet. Hank had won the naming contest. Mayra had never gotten over it, but who had ever heard of a dog named Tweeter? Roger offered to get her a parakeet, but the humor was lost on the then eight-year-old.

Annie and Roger had tried to teach Max table manners, but he’d proven more stubborn than both of them—and as Roger said, they had enough trouble teaching the kids their table manners, let alone the family dog.

Since no one had answered the nightly question yet, Annie prompted them again as she reached for the pork-chop platter. And you too, Roger. Anything interesting happen today in the world of finance?

The skin around his dark-brown eyes crinkled. Nope. Same old, same old, as usual. His standard answer.

Roger always said finance was a world in which six months of dull was followed by three days of sheer terror until the stock market righted itself and people started buying and selling as usual.

Annie thrived on as usual. Lord knew her life before Roger—as a navy brat—had been anything but boring. She’d struggled through years of moving from base to base until she was ten, always having to say goodbye to friends and start over. She tried not to dwell on it though, usually successful at keeping her well-developed insecurities down inside where the sun didn’t shine.

Anything else?

Roger reached for his fork, which caused Max to raise his head, nose twitching. Roger glared, causing the dog’s head to go down a notch, resting his furry chin on the table.

Well, Harv did spring for lunch, the old tightwad. He wants to meet with me tomorrow.

Annie raised an eyebrow. About what? A partnership?

Not sure. We’ll see. Probably to give me kudos for landing the Jackson account—you know, that retired couple from California who moved up here with their millions to invest.

Wow, Dad. Do you get some of their money?

Roger grinned and handed him the pork-chop platter.

No, Hank. I invest it for them. Hopefully, make them some more money. At least, that’s always the plan.

Hank scowled. You don’t get any of it? That’s not fair. What’s the use of working there if you don’t get any of their money?

Mayra seared her brother with a superior glare. Hank, you’re so dumb. Dad gets paid.

But—

Annie broke in with practiced smoothness. Kids, you haven’t told us about your day yet. She and Roger hated arguments and sniping and took turns putting the brakes on it.

Mayra wrapped a tendril of long hair around one finger. Oh yeah. Remember I told you we have to write an essay?

Hank butt in. Essays are boring. Let me tell you mine.

Rude—I’m older. I should answer first. At fifteen and the oldest, Mayra had an inflated sense of self-importance.

Roger stilled Mayra’s comment with a wave of his hand, reminding Annie of a Jedi knight in Star Wars. Let Hank go first, okay?

Fine. It’ll probably be just more Hank-ness anyway.

Funny, Mayra. Roger turned to Hank. Okay, son, you’ve got the floor. Make it good.

It is. So I have a question for you. Mr. Neely asked it today, and we had to write our answers on slips of paper and turn them in.

Mayra sniffed. Ugh, science—

Hey, science is cool.

Roger thumped his forefinger on the table. The question, Hank.

Okay, here it is. If the earth stopped spinning—I mean, just stopped dead from spinning all of a sudden—what would happen next? He looked around the table. Anybody know?

Four frowns appeared as everyone—except three-year-old Nora, contemplating the small mound of vegetables on her toddler-sized plate—considered the question.

Well? Who’s gonna guess first?

No school! Kimmie yelled.

No yelling at the dinner table, Mayra said.

Hank pointed at Kimmie across the table. You’re right. But why, mush-head?

Come on, Hank. She’s only seven. Give her some credit, Roger said with a grin at Kimmie. He leaned down eye level with her. Good job, honey.

Kimmie smirked at Hank, folding her arms over her chest like a boardroom boss.

Dad, aren’t you gonna guess?

Well, let’s see. The earth stops spinning all at once?

Yup. Hank sat back in his chair, index finger on his chin, his expression like the Cheshire cat with a secret.

Roger glanced at Annie. What do you think, Mom? Any ideas for our budding scientist?

Annie shook her head and looked at her plate, a tight feeling in her chest at the direction the conversation had taken, but unable to think of a graceful way to stop it. She’d started it, after all.

Okay, Hank, Roger started. I guess nobody would have a tomorrow, right? It’s the rotation of the earth that makes tomorrow arrive. Without that rotation—

Annie looked at Nora, then back at Roger. She needed to stop this.

All right, let’s change the subject— She didn’t mean to sound gruff, but that was the way the words popped out.

Mom, don’t you want to know the answer? Hank leaned toward Roger. You’re right, Dad. Tomorrow wouldn’t come. But something else would happen right away. There’d be sudden winds, about a thousand miles an hour, the teacher said. And they would flatten everything on earth, except at the poles. So no school the next day, because there wouldn’t be any schools or a next day. And Mr. Neely said ocean waves a hundred miles tall. How’s that for cool?

Roger shook his head with a grimace. Very cool, Hank. Thanks for sharing.

He gestured to Mayra. You’re up.

Maybe we can just eat now. Annie didn’t want to hear about Mayra’s essay.

But, Mom, Hank got to tell his. Why can’t I tell mine?

Annie raised her hands in surrender. Fine. But let’s not let our food get cold, you guys. We can eat and listen at the same time.

Okay, my essay.

Roger handed her the mashed potatoes. Uh-huh.

Mayra grabbed for the bowl. Miss Harris gave us a choice of three questions to answer. Mayra passed the dinner rolls to him without answering.

Oh? Roger took the rolls and paused with the basket midair.

She spooned some mashed potatoes onto her plate, dipping her finger in for a taste. Oh, good. Cheese, no onion.

Roger grunted, clearly exasperated. Don’t keep us in suspense. What question did you choose?

Mayra speared a pork chop and sawed off a bite while everyone waited. What would I do today if I knew I’d die tomorrow? She popped the morsel into her mouth. Mmm. Good, Mom.

Annie stared at Mayra, who chomped her meat and chased it down with a noisy slurp of milk.

Kinda goes along with Hank’s, huh Mom?

Hank smirked. Yeah, but yours is just an essay. Mine’s real.

Mayra threw him her best know-it-all glance. How do you know? It’s never happened before. And probably never will, dufus. She drained her glass of milk.

The pounding in Annie’s head kept time with the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Her gaze narrowed to Mayra’s unperturbed profile, the teen clearly unaware she’d sent her mother tumbling through a decades-old abyss.

Annie was unable to stop her mad descent into the same unreasoning fear she’d suffered all her remembered life, that the other shoe would drop soon and wrench everything good out of her breath and being. Except it wasn’t exactly unreasoning. She’d been here before.

She heard the scratching sound again. The old fear hissed behind her, then glided in, serpentlike as the silence enclosed her. Just as it always did.

What she wouldn’t give for a week without a Thursday.

2

Mayra banged her glass down and looked up at the sudden silence. What? What’d I say? Why are you all staring at me?

Annie dropped her fork. It hit her plate with a clang—harsh in the silence—then bounced and skittered under the table. She scooted her chair back and dived to the floor, banging her knee. Stretching, she grabbed the utensil—along with a broccoli floweret—a split second before Max could stick his nose on it. Her hand trembled as she pushed her hair back from her damp forehead. Max dived for the fork again when it slipped out of her fingers.

Annie pushed him away. Max, behave yourself—

Roger’s face appeared under the lacy tablecloth, one hand on Max’s collar. What are you doing down there?

Getting my fork. You writing a book? Leave that chapter out.

Crawling out to a chorus of giggles, she wiped her fork on her napkin and popped the broccoli into her mouth.

Five-second rule? Kimmie chirped. She had a habit of pushing her bangs out of the way, and her short reddish-blond hair stuck up all over her head. Of all the children, she was the most mellow, never pushing back. Compared to Nora, the miniature scrapper, Kimmie was a pussycat.

Yes, honey, five-second rule.

Hey, that was longer than five seconds! Hank’s indignant expression looked so like his father’s, with his black wavy hair, olive skin, and dark eyes.

Roger stopped the argument before it started. Never mind, you guys. Eat your dinner.

He pulled Max back from the table. You stay back, Max, ya hear? This is not your dinner—it’s mine. He looked down the table at Annie. You okay, honey?

Of course. I just dropped my fork. Let’s not make a fuss about it.

The undercurrent of not usual danced in the forefront of her mind like a dragonfly on the breeze. Can we eat now please?

Roger shrugged and sipped his tea. You don’t have to get so testy.

He looked at Mayra. Back to your essay. Sounds like a grim subject for a tenth grader. Did anyone else pick that question? And what were your other choices, anyway?

I dunno and I dunno.

Don’t know and don’t know.

Yeah, that too.

Annie glared at her. Mayra, don’t be rude to your father—

You were.

Hank snickered and mocked a high five at his older sister.

Annie tightened her grip on her knife. Had she ever been fifteen? Not this kind of fifteen. If she’d spoken to her parents that way . . . She stopped herself and relaxed her fingers, meeting Roger’s gaze.

Roger shook his head, exasperation wrinkled between his eyes. Have you got any ideas for your essay—what you’re going to say, I mean?

The queen of teenaged sarcasm groaned and displayed her talent, enunciating each word with a break in between. I don’t know, Dad. Maybe if I knew for sure I’d die tomorrow, I’d say goodbye to people. Family, close friends—

Ya think—

Roger wagged an index finger. Hank, don’t talk with your mouth full. And stop giving Max bites of food.

—or maybe I’d go off by myself for a long walk or something and just not come back. Mayra scraped up the last of her mashed potatoes. I don’t know.

She looked sideways at Annie. But I know this. I wouldn’t make a federal case out of dying. And anyways, how could I possibly know if I’ll die tomorrow? Who cares? I’m only fifteen.

Only fifteen.

Roger leaned toward her. It’s ‘anyway,’ not ‘anyways.’ He sat up again and covered her hand with his. But you should think about the question.

She jerked her hand away. Why?

Hank, bless his heart, was not to be outdone by Mayra’s sarcasm. Yeah, why? It’s not like it’ll really happen—

Mayra sent her brother a blistering glare. Dude! What would you know about it?

Hey, sometimes I know stuff. You don’t have a corner on the brains market.

Roger lowered his forehead to his palm. Kids, will you stop bickering. Please?

Annie felt the walls close in and squeeze the breath from her lungs. At the same time, the table stretched, elongating itself, moving her family away from her. What an odd, frightening sensation. She pinched her eyes shut, then opened them.

The dining room returned to normal. Sort of, if she didn’t count the unnatural conversation. Her usual tight rein on mealtime had slipped tonight. She must get it back.

Roger tried again with Mayra. Because, honey, life’s short. And we never know what might happen the next day or even the next minute.

He lifted his chin and looked over Mayra’s head at Annie, pinning her with his stare.

She wondered where he was going with that. Mom and Dad? Abby? No, not that . . .

No one said anything, not even smart-mouthed Hank. It was as if they were frozen in time, staring wide eyed at each other. Max was quiet too, on the floor near Hank’s chair.

The next minute Mayra snorted her disdain. Geez, Dad, now you’re the one who’s grim—

Annie struggled to keep the irritation out of her voice. Okay, that’ll do—

Mommy, what’s ‘die’? Nora’s breathy whisper blitzed into the room and into Annie’s brain, almost drowning out the beating rhythm of the clock in the corner.

But it didn’t tick again. Annie jerked her focus from Nora’s white face to the clock. It was motionless at one second past six o’clock. It’d never stopped before.

Nora’s fingers tapped a beat on Annie’s arm, her tone rising in high-voiced desperation. "Mommy, Mommy, what’s it mean?"

Annie wrenched her gaze from the clock’s face back to Nora’s. The child’s worry-smeared eyes pierced her heart as the fear slid up to the table next to Annie’s chair. Next she’d feel it on her pant leg.

How did you tell a three-year-old about death?

She gave a sideways glance at the two photos on the wall. And where the third should’ve been.

Roger cleared his throat. Baby—

Annie rushed to answer first. It’s . . . it’s when—

Remember when you found that squished bird in the park? It was dead—I mean, it died when it got squished.

Roger slammed his cup down. Hank! For crying out loud, don’t scare your sis—

Nora grabbed Annie’s fingers and shrieked. Sis . . . Sissie’s gonna be squished?

Hank threw his head back and burst into unbrotherly laughter. You’re so—

Annie glared at Hank and thrust her palm in his face, causing him to jerk back.

Ah, Mom, don’t be so—

Hank! Roger’s voice thundered.

Max slunk under the table.

3

Annie sucked in a deep breath and wiped a slick of sweat from her forehead, desperate to rescue this family time and return it to some semblance of as usual.

She faced Nora and leaned over her booster chair so they were eye to eye, gentling her voice. No, Nora. No one is going to squish Mayra. Hank’s just teasing you. She unwound Nora’s fingers and stroked them.

When people die, they go live with God. Mayra just has to write an essay—a story—about it. It’s only a school assignment. It’s not real. Understand?

Yeah, Nora—

Roger gripped Hank’s forearm. Let your mother handle this. Not another word, son.

Promise, Mommy? She won’t d . . . die . . . be squished? Nora’s anxious eyes, blue as the summer sky, searched Annie’s face, her plump fingers gripping her mother’s thumb like a vise.

I promise, honey. Now let’s finish dinner, okay? Mayra, we can talk about your assignment some other time if you want.

Mayra shrugged. "You asked, Mom. I was just making conversation—you know, like you and Dad say we have to. See what happens? Hank acts like a jerk, and