Second Time Around

by Nancy Moser

  As if she’d been slapped, she realized her parents’ viewpoints were diametrically opposed. No wonder she’d been forced to create her own counsel. The question was, which parent was right?

  Vanessa looked back to the letter. A gift? What could her mother offer her? Vanessa needed nothing.

  The memory of Daddy pressing a hundred-dollar bill into her hands popped front and center. It was not a single memory but a collective one in her post-mother years.

  “Go buy something,” he’d say. “Then come back and show me what you’ve bought. You do so much for me, Vanessa. I don’t know what I’d do without you helping this poor, old, lonely man.”

  Annoyed at first, she’d come to accept and even foster the fact that he needed her. Though Yardley Pruitt managed to appear strong in his role as the president of Fidelity Mutual Bank—by hiring strong people around him—in his personal life he was rather pathetic. Vanessa enjoyed the position of power she earned by making him depend on her, one loyal daughter helping the needy man. Eventually she’d discovered that the power surge she gained by giving could be extended past her father’s domain. Anyone who knew Vanessa Caldwell commented on her altruistic nature. She hadn’t received three volunteer-of-the-year awards for nothing—even though her thank-you speeches suggested otherwise: “Thank you for this award and your kind words about my work. It was really nothing…”

  Yes, indeed, Vanessa had created a life around the art of being a professional giver, an organizer extraordinaire. In return, all she asked from the recipients was a little respect, recognition, and gratitude. Until a half hour ago, she’d thought she’d received those sentiments from her father, but then the letters proved he’d been playing her. Duping her. Lying to her. It was unacceptable.

  She shook her head, forcing his image away. She ran a hand over letter after letter that showcased her mother’s loving words and prayers. Words of faith that God would take care of them both and loved them both. To think that Dorian Pruitt had never given up trying to contact her daughter even when she’d received constant rejection. To think that her father had intercepted every one of those letters and sent them back.

  “It wasn’t my doing!”

  Her words quickly soaked into the rag rug, making her wonder if she’d even said them aloud.

  No matter. She’d felt them and ached with the anguish and confusion behind them. Her unassuming, needy father had placed himself as a mighty guard between mother and daughter. A pit bull where she’d believed him to be a cuddly lapdog. He’d lied and said her mother didn’t love her anymore and wouldn’t have been able to take care of her if she did. He’d called Dorian Pruitt a loser, a woman who hadn’t appreciated what she had when she’d had it. A mean woman who’d made the two of them suffer with loss. Yes, indeed, Yardley Pruitt had spent his life making Vanessa think she’d chosen correctly by staying with him. Who needed a mother, anyway?

  I did.

  Vanessa pulled the packet of letters to her chest and fell sideways onto the bed, pulling her knees close. How would things have been if she’d chosen to be a part of her mother’s free-spirited existence instead of burrowing into the safety of her father’s intractable life of black and white with no room or tolerance for gray? Her heart throbbed with a sorrow and uncertainty she hadn’t experienced in… in thirty-four…

  This was ridiculous. She forced herself to sit and reached for a tissue on the bedside table. Wallowing in the could-have-beens was a waste of time. It was too late. Her mother was gone.

  As she blew her nose, she noticed a ticket on the bedside table. She picked it up. It was a Time Lottery ticket. Had her mother bought one for herself, hoping to go back and live another life? Were the regrets she’d mentioned in her video so strong that she’d longed for another chance?

  Vanessa made note of the date. The choosing of the three Time Lottery winners was tomorrow. Irony of ironies. Wouldn’t it be horrible if her mother was one of the winners? Talk about too late…

  Vanessa placed the ticket with the letters when she noticed the name handwritten on it: Vanessa Pruitt.

  Not Dorian Pruitt.

  Vanessa.

  “Me?”

  She stared at her name, then grabbed up the Christmas letter.

  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… I want you to have it, because I want you to have every chance to live a life of fulfillment and joy.

  Chance.

  A chance to change everything.

  The Time Lottery.

  Vanessa’s heart beat double time. She’d never considered buying a ticket. To do so would be to admit her life wasn’t perfect. But now. To know that her mother had wanted her to have the opportunity of a second chance…

  “Oh, Mother.”

  The drawing was tomorrow. As she calmed her breathing, she realized she could finally allow herself to consider the words Dudley had wanted her to think about:

  If only…

  Malibu

  As soon as Brandy left for the day, Lane rushed into her living room and turned on her Bose stereo system. There were speakers in many rooms, and within seconds she surrounded herself with Faure’s “Dolly” Suite. Though she could tolerate silence in the daytime hours, she had trouble dealing with it in the dark. And dark was descending quickly.

  How laughable. Lane Holloway. Mega movie star. Leading a glamorous life of premiers, beaded gowns, and Harry Winston jewelry. Yeah, right. If the world only knew how many evenings she spent alone with nothing to do, no place to go, and worse yet, nowhere she was able to go without getting pounced on by paparazzi. She couldn’t even take a walk with the assurance she’d have privacy. She was a prisoner in her home. So in order to dispel the power of the four walls, she kept them filled with light and sound.

  To keep away the boogeyman. At the thought, she moved to the kitchen and flipped on the lights. When was the last time she’d thought of that phrase? High school? She and her boyfriend Toby had loved to watch scary movies, though Toby had confided that his motivation stemmed more from her need to cuddle close through the scary parts rather than any great story line or fascination he had for blood and guts.

  She smiled at the thought of him. She’d been thinking about him often lately. Memories of Toby had surfaced when she’d gone through the rather public breakup with Klaus. Actors… can’t live with them, can’t live with them.

  Toby and his dimples. His shy way of looking over his long lashes, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. And his kisses… Tomorrow was the Time Lottery drawing. Brandy had bought her a ticket, wanting her to give her life with Joseph Brannerman a second chance. She leaned on the breakfast bar and thought of the lovely Joseph with his perfect GQ persona, perfect manners, perfect life.

  Too perfect. Lane wasn’t surprised that Brandy liked him. To the outsider, Joseph was everything the celebrity Lane Holloway could ever want or need. He was comfortable with her fame, earned a six-figure salary as a stock analyst, and could converse with Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks as easily as most people chatted with their mailman.

  What no one realized was that Joseph was high maintenance. Mt. Everest-need-oxygen high. After he’d moved in with her, she’d never felt at ease, never felt like she could bum around in sweats and no makeup, eating crackers and Easy Cheese for dinner if the mood hit. Joseph looked exquisite at all times. Even lounging around on Sunday morning he looked like an ad for the good life.

  He was too much work. And so she’d let him go, hooking up with Stefan Embers for a quick go-round—what was she thinking?—before living, most recently, with Klaus. He was not high maintenance. Low maintenance. No maintenance. No self-maintenance. Klaus was an easy-going, lazy slob. Where was her medium-man, her man in the middle of high and low maintenance? A man who had balance in his life and c
ould help her balance hers?

  Toby Bjornson.

  She laughed at the thought. Toby? No way. And yet…

  She opened the refrigerator. Brandy had stocked it with all sorts of healthy things bent on maintaining Lane’s size-two figure. As a teenager, she’d been able to eat whatever she wanted. If Lane never ate another salad…

  An impulse formed and she moved to the pantry. Yes! She took out the bag of chocolate chips and read the back. The Toll House recipe promised her satisfaction amid the dark and lonely night.

  Within seconds she had the mixer out and the ingredients ready. She didn’t have any nuts but would make do with double the chocolate chips. Using the remote, she shut off the classical music and turned on the kitchen TV. She flipped channels until she found a program to match her mood. Dirty Dancing was showing on a movie channel. Perfect. Memories flooded back of making cookies with Toby in her parents’ kitchen while the sound track played…

  Cooking to a beat had always been her specialty.

  Kansas City

  John Wriggens, the chief administrator of TTC, leaned back in his chair, forming a pencil bridge between his hands. “So, Mac. Tomorrow is the day. Is everything set? Are we ready to welcome three more guinea pigs into the winner’s circle?”

  Mac clenched his jaw in a way that had become too familiar. After catching Wriggens taking a bribe from the husband of one of last year’s winners, Mac had wanted to get an investigation going into Wriggens’s suitability to oversee the program. And yet, he couldn’t. On a whim, he’d agreed to overlook Wriggens’s breach by securing his own job as the public relations liaison for the Time Lottery. He had the job for as long as he wanted it. But in return, he had to deal with the moral and administrative ambiguity of John Wriggens. It was a price that alternated between doable and deplorable.

  Today was the latter. Wriggens was acting as if the lottery was his baby, when in truth—as far as Mac could see—he did little to earn his six-figure salary. But Mac would endure. For the good of the cause.

  He realized Wriggens had not waited for his answer but had continued to talk. He was reiterating logistical details of tomorrow’s drawing as if he had set things up and not Mac.

  Mac resorted to a tried-and-true method to get out of Wriggens’s office as quickly as possible: He sat back and let the man ramble. He hoped he’d finish soon because he had a lunch date with Cheryl and did not want to keep the lady waiting. She was such a joy, such a burst of energy into his life as a widower. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

  Suddenly, Mac noticed silence. Wriggens was grinning at him.

  Oh dear.

  Wriggens leaned forward on his desk, his voice low. “Who is she, Mac?”

  Mac felt the heat in his face. “She?”

  “The woman who’s preventing you from fully listening to me.”

  Not listening wasn’t all Cheryl’s fault. Mac looked at his watch. “Forgive me if I seem distracted. My mind is swimming with details.” He stood. “I really need to check to see if all the lottery tickets have arrived. We’ve ordered some extra security to oversee them being placed in the sphere for the drawing. It’s best not to risk any hint of impropriety.”

  The smallest of snickers escaped Wriggens’s mouth. “My thoughts exactly, right, Mac?”

  As Mac left, the back of his neck tingled.

  What did Wriggens know?

  Cheryl started to hand Mac a sandwich across the center console of his car, then pulled it back and offered her face for a kiss. He was glad to oblige.

  She sighed extravagantly, then whispered, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  He opened the Thermos of coffee and poured. “I thought you, of all people, would be energized by the intrigue. Not many couples get to picnic in a car—in the far corner of a parking lot of an abandoned park.”

  She took a bite of a sandwich, then held it out for him to taste. “The park is abandoned because it’s January and Siberian out here.”

  He exchanged hot coffee for a sandwich. “Just a few more days. Once we get through the latest drawing and send-off, I’ll take you somewhere special.”

  “Oh, this is special,” she said. “We’ve done special. How about public?”

  He’d actually been thinking of finding an obscure little restaurant in an obscure little town where people might not be up on their latest celebrities, because both Cheryl and Phoebe Thurgood—the other Time Lottery winner to return a year ago— were known and had been featured periodically in updates on their post-lottery life. A photo from Phoebe’s marriage to Peter Greenfield had even been on the cover of People, but they’d wisely gone underground since then. Mac hoped they were finding a little wedded bliss.

  With Phoebe out of commission, Cheryl was the only past winner whom the press would interview before the drawing tomorrow. Yet Mac had to smile. He remembered last year’s press conference before the winners were sent on their journeys. Cheryl had revealed a star quality. She was a natural in front of the camera and had no trouble putting the media in their place. It was a trait that might come in handy.

  “Do you ever wonder how Leon’s doing?” Cheryl asked.

  The question took him by surprise, though he realized it shouldn’t have. Leon Burke was the one winner who’d decided to stay behind in his Alternity, in 1962 Tennessee. There was no way anyone could know whether he was thriving or in misery. Yet any life had to be better than the life of a homeless, murdering transient Leon had lived in the present. He’d been so desperate to go back in time that he’d actually killed the legitimate winner, Roosevelt Haven, and had taken his place. Such horrible complications were possible the first year, but no more. A more stringent ID process had been set in place.

  The murder of Roosevelt could have been the end of the entire Time Lottery program if it weren’t for the insatiable fascination people had with the concept of getting a second chance to do things right. Or at least better.

  “…wearing a bikini and a diamond tiara for my interview tomorrow. What do you think?”

  Mac blinked. “What did you say?”

  “Tsk, tsk, Alexander. You weren’t listening.”

  “Sorry.”

  She set her sandwich in her lap, took his hand, and kissed it. “It’ll be all right, Mac. I know it will. Relax. God’s got it covered. Plus, I’ll be there.”

  God and Cheryl Nickolby. It was covered. How could he fail?

  Three

  The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong,

  nor does food come to the wise

  or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned;

  but time and chance happen to them all.

  Ecclesiastes 9:11

  Kansas City

  Mac put a hand on the back of Cheryl’s neck. “You ready to face the lions?”

  “Ah, think again, bucko. The better question is, are they ready for me?”

  He laughed, then snuck a kiss to her cheek before heading onstage to introduce her. The applause was immediate. The Time Lottery auditorium was filled to capacity. Many of the seats were taken by media and those who’d been invited. But the line for general admission had been two blocks long.

  The VIPs looked very important in their front-row seats. Yet they had no advantage over the cameraman in the back or the janitor who would sweep up afterward. Let them feel important now. The great equalizer was the swirling Plexiglas model of the world that contained the gyrating tickets of all the entrants. Buy one ticket, get one chance. Simple.

  Yet not so simple. The intricacies of the Time Lottery experience reinforced Mac’s belief in an all-wise, loving God who delighted in handling amazing details. How else could it be explained that last year’s winners had each met each other in their pasts?

  Phoebe had met Leon in 1962, Cheryl had met Phoebe in 1969
, and had met Leon in 1973. As a man of faith, Mac knew better than to condone the excuse of “coincidence” in regard to such miracles. Added to this unexpected phenomenon was the fact that both Phoebe and Cheryl had come through the experience with a heightened faith and a deeper sense of purpose. Free will prevailed, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a plan, a perfect plan that people messed up repeatedly. The Time Lottery was a chance to get it right.

  Mac moved to the edge of the stage and waited until the applause faded. He crossed his hands in front and smiled. “We meet again.” He accepted their laughter. “I welcome you to the second annual Time Lottery drawing. Before we leave here today, we will choose three new winners to participate in this scientific marvel of marvels, giving them a chance to travel back into their own lives to change something. However… utilizing the full extent of our marketing know-how, we are going to let you wait just a bit longer and—”

  There was a communal moan. He raised a hand, playfully fending off their objections. It was all part of the game, and in truth, they knew that as much as he. “Milk the moment” was an established right—nay, duty—of every person or organization in the public eye.

  “To aid you in your wait, I would like to introduce one of last year’s winners, Dr. Cheryl Nickolby, who will have the honor of picking the winning tickets.”

  Cheryl burst from the wings, hands waving like an Olympic gold medalist come home. They exchanged a proper hug and as the applause continued, Cheryl offered a curtsy and a by-your-leave sweep of her hand. “Keep it up and I’m apt to forgive you for all the meddling you’ve done in my life this last year.”

  “You love it!” yelled a man in the third row.

  Cheryl smoothed her long black jacket over her very short skirt. She had wonderful legs… “Let’s say I’ve accepted it as a necessary evil.” She winked at them. “You are evil, you know.”

  “We try!” yelled one reporter.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” added another.

  “Watch it, bucko,” Cheryl said.