Second Time Around

by Nancy Moser

  Brandy turned her attention away from the plants. “So I know as fact. You’re way too picky. Good men don’t grow on trees. Take my Randy.”

  “I thought you wanted me to take Joseph.”

  She joined Lane back at the railing, her voice low. “Promise you won’t tell?”

  “Sure.”

  “I also bought a ticket for myself.”

  Lane played the aghast emotion to perfection. “Have you been holding out on me all these years? Was there a Romeo in your past you want to explore more deeply?”

  “Randy is Romeo enough for me. But I have always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t followed you out to Hollywood—if I’d stayed in Minnesota.”

  Lane put away her teasing. “You’d go back to Dawson?”

  “Maybe I could have helped my mom more.”

  Lane put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Brandy’s mother had been an abusive alcoholic, and leaving her had been the hardest—yet best—thing her friend had ever done. They watched the tide a few minutes. Then Lane turned around and swept a hand to encompass her home. “Enough of this talk. I’d be stupid to go back. Look at what I have: this home, one in Montana, an apartment in New York…” She spotted the script on the table. “And what about my acting? That script will win me an Academy Award. I know it.”

  Brandy shook her head.

  “Don’t shake your head. It’s a good part. It will let me explore new sides to my—”

  Brandy snickered. “That’s one way to put it. Your backside, front side… yes, sirree, the world will see all sides of Lane Holloway.”

  “Nudity doesn’t have the stigma it once had. All the big actresses are doing it.”

  “Well, alrighty then.”

  Lane had discussed it with her agent, and they’d decided the nudity was a necessary risk. Besides, she was in good shape for nearly thirty-five. She had nothing to hide. And much to gain.

  “Have you gotten around to reading that book I want you to make into a movie?” Brandy asked.

  “I started it.” She hadn’t.

  “Baloney. It’s probably still sitting on your bedside table.” She took a step toward the French doors leading inside.

  “No,” Lane said, stopping her. “I haven’t. But I will.”

  Brandy pointed at her. “Making a movie out of that book may not win you an Oscar, but it would be a good vehicle for you. Great parts all around. A gripping, life-changing story. The young mother Merry loses her son and husband in a plane crash and comes to realize that her selfish discontent caused them to be on the plane in the first—”

  Lane raised a hand, stopping her. “I’ll read it. I promise.”

  “Yes, yes, so you say.” Brandy returned to her seat at the table and opened her notebook, readying for the daily errands. “As far as winning the Time Lottery? Never fear, Laney-girl. The chances of either one of us winning are slim. After the success of last year’s drawing, I’m sure they’ll sell a ton of tickets. So don’t worry about it. I just thought it would be fun to think about.”

  Lane acquiesced and gave her a hug from behind. “And I thank you for your continued thoughtfulness.” And it would make her think.

  If only…

  Kansas City

  Alexander MacMillan opened his front door, only to have Cheryl Nickolby burst past him, slam the door shut, and press herself against it like a woman on the run. “Phew! I made it!”

  He crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “What are you doing?”

  She relaxed her stance, smoothed her brown pants and sweater, then yanked him close with such force that he expelled a puff of air. After a hello kiss that left him even more breathless, she stepped back and answered his question. “I’m only following your directions. You’ve stressed the need for discretion and emphasized the necessity to never, ever, ever let anyone from the media know that you, the Time Lottery Czar, are dating me, mistress of the first lottery and doctor extraordinaire.” She clapped her hands to her chest dramatically. “Heaven forbid the world know we have the hots for each other.”

  Mac looked behind him, checking for six-year-old ears. “We care about each other.”

  “Same thing.” She breezed past him. “Now, where’s the real man in my life? Andrew? Olly olly oxen free!”

  Andrew came running from upstairs, jumped from the third step, and barreled into her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

  “Whoa, bud! Nice to see you, too.”

  He let her loose. “I made the garlic bread, but I spilled spaghetti sauce on my shirt, so I had to change.”

  “If you were making the bread, how did you spill sauce—?”

  Mac rumpled his son’s hair. “Long story. Let’s eat.”

  During dinner, Mac found himself watching Cheryl as she teased Andrew and told them about her new job at a local hospital. For her to leave Boulder, Colorado, and move to Kansas City to be near the two of them still left him stunned. Actually, everything about Cheryl left him stunned. She was a stunning woman. For Mac to have found two women in his lifetime, first Holly, and now Cheryl…

  The women were two ends of a spectrum. Where dear Holly had been ten years younger than he, petite, dark-haired, sweet, and domestic, Cheryl was ten years older—nearly forty-eight—tall, blond, vivacious, and a brilliant surgeon. It didn’t make sense that such diverse women would fit into his life. Fit with him. And yet they did. Each in their time.

  Ha. Time. The unrelenting taskmaster.

  And yet… the whole Time Lottery phenomenon still astounded him. For the winners to be able to go back in time, into their own lives and change something, explore their Alternate Reality—their Alternity—was miracle enough. But to be offered the option to stay there and live out that new choice or come back to this one was mind-boggling. Mac was beyond glad that Cheryl had chosen to come back to the present. To be here. In his life.

  Actually, as incentive to take the job as the public relations liaison for the TTC, Mac had been offered a chance to go back into his life, to the time before Holly was murdered by an intruder, to change her death to life. In spite of the temptation, he’d refused. To go back and live a life with Holly in his Alternity would be to leave their son here, alone. It was something he could not do.

  “Can I be excused?” Andrew asked.

  “May I. And yes, you may.”

  Mac and Cheryl sat in silence until voices from the family-room TV drifted into the kitchen. Then Cheryl put a hand on Mac’s. “I saw you deep in thought. About what?”

  He smiled and kissed her hand.

  She got out of her chair, and he gladly made room on his lap. “I’m finding this secrecy very hard, you know. I’m not a secretive person. What you see is what you get.”

  “An attribute.”

  “I’ve already heard the buzz about me moving to Kansas City. A reporter asked me about it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I’d fallen in love with the town when I’d come here to participate in the Time Lottery. And after my experience in the past, I felt the need for a fresh start. Plus, I said I’d befriended the most amazing, sexy man who has the ability to make my epidermis tingle in a most delightful way.”

  He leaned his head against her neck. “You saved me, you know. My decision not to go back—”

  “Shh.” She began to rock, and he joined in the rhythm.

  “I want to tell the world about us, Cheryl. I do.”

  “I know.”

  “We just need to get through the next lottery. Then the attention will be on the new winners, and we can be free to be you and me.”

  “Free to be us.”

  He closed his eyes and was comforted by the beat of her heart.

  If only…

  Two

  No on
e whose hope is in you will ever be put to shame,

  but they will be put to shame who are

  treacherous without excuse.

  Psalm 25:3

  Bangor

  David Stancowsky sat in his office on the top floor overlooking the Penobscot River. Snow fell and occasionally attacked the windowpane, dying against its warmth. David smiled at the victory. The cold couldn’t get to him. It wouldn’t dare. He was safe in this world of his creation.

  But was he happy?

  It was not a question he pondered often. Yet ever since buying a Time Lottery ticket… He leaned back in his leather chair, holding the ticket between his hands. He’d made no secret of the fact he’d bought one, but had couched his purchase by buying a ticket for every employee of Mariner Construction. If he could have bought a hundred for himself, he would have done so. But the Time Lottery people had set it up so there could be only one entry per person. Most likely they didn’t want some wealthy eccentric buying up a million tickets, skewing the balance between rich and poor. An annoying concession in this age when political correctness ruled.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath and let such inequities go. He had one chance, and if God was good and merciful He would let David win. After all, didn’t he deserve it? After Millie’s death he’d never married. Though he couldn’t say he’d been completely faithful to her memory, she was never far from his thoughts. And he hadn’t abandoned his promise to Millie’s father, either. Ray Reynolds was the founder of Mariner Construction, and upon Millie and David’s wedding engagement in 1958, Ray had named his soon-to-be son-in-law his successor. When Millie died, David had stayed on and had even taken over when Ray retired. Now it was David who paid for Ray’s care in the nursing home a few miles north of town. David had suffered great loss with dignity and loyalty. And he’d done his duty.

  Not that his life had been wasted. He’d had a good life, a successful career. He was well liked and well feared—a powerful combination in the business world. But the bottom line was that he deserved to win the lottery, to do it all over again with Millie by his side. Millie and children.

  Was it his old age talking? Probably. At seventy-four, with more aches and pains than he mentioned to anyone, David was ripe for another shot at age twenty-eight, at making a good life better.

  His secretary’s voice sounded on the intercom: “Earl Degan, line one. He’s checking on the delivery of the drywall.”

  Drywall. Who cared about drywall when the drawing for the Time Lottery was tomorrow?

  David picked up the phone.

  And life went on—for now.

  Decatur, Georgia

  Vanessa Caldwell stood at the front door and took a deep breath.

  “You want me to do it?” Dudley asked.

  She glared at him, mad at herself for hinting at any weakness. “I’m fine.”

  Dudley took the key ring away. “Sure you are. Though I must say I am a bit surprised by your reaction. Your mother’s dead; it’s not like you’re going to have to talk to her.”

  But to enter her world…

  He pushed the door open and stepped aside, forcing Vanessa to go first. She stood on the threshold and peered in. Sunlight streamed in the windows, and she could visualize the entire floor plan from her position. The tiny living room was to the left, the kitchen could be seen beyond a beaded doorway straight ahead, and a small hall led to the back, to what certainly would be a bedroom and bath. The depth and breadth of her mother’s world consisted of four rooms. Vanessa’s master-bedroom suite consisted of four rooms. Her closet could have swallowed this living room whole.

  Dudley peeked past her at the eclectic mix of antiques and homespun. “A blast from the past, isn’t it? Hippie city.”

  Once a hippie always a hippie? Vanessa went inside and picked up a “World’s Best Teacher” picture frame that showcased her mother with a gaggle of smiling kids. Tie-dyed curtains framed windows that held a parade of African violets. A quilt hung above the fireplace, and a ratty pair of clogs sat next to an oak rocker close by. An odd mix, yet the home had an unusual charm, more than Vanessa had expected—or wanted. She’d always pictured her mother living in a hovel, dressed in hand-me-downs. Barely getting by. Paying dearly for leaving and causing the divorce.

  There was a knock on the opened front door. “Hello?” An elderly woman stepped inside, then stopped. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but when I saw the car…” She carried a stack of mail held together by large rubber bands and extended her free hand toward Dudley. “I’m Mildred Crown. Dorian and I have been neighbors forever. And you are…?”

  Dudley pointed to Vanessa. “You want the daughter. She’s the daughter.”

  Being deemed “the daughter” was an odd experience. Vanessa shook Mrs. Crown’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Mildred stared at her, obviously studying her. “My, my. To finally meet…” She shook the rest of the sentence away. “I was so sorry when Dorian passed. And sorry that I couldn’t be at the service. My arthritis makes it hard for me to get around much. Yet when I saw your fancy car in the drive… I just had to come see, knowing it probably would be you.”

  Knowing?

  She took a step toward the door. “I’ll leave you be. I’m sure you want to take some time going through the trimmings of your mother’s life. She was an amazing woman. A wonderful woman.” Mildred glanced at the mail. “The postman left these with me since Dorian’s mailbox was full. I took the liberty of opening a few. Sympathy cards. Many from former students telling how your mother changed their lives. Dorian did love being a teacher. Almost as much as she loved you. And in turn, she was loved by so many.” Her hand found her chin. “Loved by you, I hope? Finally loved by you?”

  Dudley stepped toward her, showing her out. “Thanks for stopping by, Mrs. Crown.” He closed the door with a gentle click. “Well, then…”

  Vanessa found herself rooted in the middle of the room, the mail clutched to her chest. She was appalled to feel the sting of tears and squeezed her eyes shut against them.

  Dudley did not venture to touch her. He seemed to know better. “It will be all right, Vanessa.”

  Yes, yes. Of course it will. Everything always came out all right. She would make it so.

  Yet it unnerved her that her next thought was to call Daddy. With difficulty, she shooed the thought away.

  Her whole life had been a lie.

  After going through various cupboards and closets, after having her mother’s life descend on her like a smothering shroud, Vanessa sent Dudley away to get lunch. She needed time alone to face her past. Her mother’s past. And try to find a future.

  She sat on the quilted bedspread, the evidence of the lies spread before her. Near the footboard were forty-eight sympathy cards from friends and past students lauding Dorian Pruitt’s effect on their lives. Her mother had lived a significant life. She didn’t have riches or power or fame. But she’d lived well and touched others.

  Vanessa’s father had lied. Her mother was not miserable and of no use to anyone; a pathetic nobody who had no purpose in the world. And yet that was not the worst lie. The evidence of that deception lay directly in front of her and revealed itself in the form of a second set of letters.

  She’d found them in a box, in the drawer of the bedside table. Dozens and dozens of letters addressed to Vanessa and marked “Return to Sender.” Postmarks from her teen years to the present, with the latest marked last Christmas. All sent to her father’s house, trusting him to forward them on.

  But he hadn’t. Not one letter had made its way into Vanessa’s hands.

  Initially, after she read the letters, Vanessa’s anger had spread from her father to her mother. In the later years why hadn’t Dorian sent the letters to Vanessa’s home?

  Then she remembered the video. Her mother hadn’t even known her m
arried name—there was no reason she would know. In college, after following her father’s instructions to have an abortion, Vanessa had flunked out of school. She’d been an emotional and mental mess. When she met stable and kind Dudley Caldwell, without meaning to, or even wanting to, Vanessa fell in love—or at least intense like. When Dudley proposed, she’d agreed, and in an act of defiance against her father had foregone the fancy, society wedding and eloped. It was a decision that still elicited anger from Yardley Pruitt. But because of that one act, there were no society clippings for her mother to peruse, clip out, and save. In the fall of 1976 Vanessa Pruitt had quietly become Vanessa Caldwell and had slipped into the Georgia night. Forty miles from her mother, yet a lifetime away.

  That was then; this was now. Vanessa looked over the final Christmas letter.

  I love you, dear Nessa. May you find the true meaning in the celebration of our Savior’s birth. I pray you come to know Him as I have. I pray you find your true purpose in Him… Remember what I’ve always said: “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.” I’ve tried to live that motto, and by doing so I’ve found great happiness. Only your absence kept it from being complete. Yet I’m afraid that through your father’s possessive tutelage you may have lived out too many opportunities because you could, not thinking about whether you should. It’s never too late to change that, dear girl. Toward that end… please call me. Just one phone call. I have a gift for you that could change everything, something I thought of the other day and bought for you. I want you to have it, because I want you to have every chance to live a life of fulfillment and joy.

  She lowered the letter into her lap. How many times had Vanessa heard her mother say that line: “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should?” Yet had Vanessa ever applied it to real life? The trouble with being Yardley Pruitt’s daughter, Dudley Caldwell’s wife, Rachel Caldwell’s mother, and a professional and acclaimed volunteer and fund-raiser was that the air was heavy with things she could do. Which made her remember her father’s motto: “Those who can, should.”