Second Time Around

by Nancy Moser

  “You know I’m right, Vanessa. You know your Dudley-decision would be the best choice to explore. Truthfully, sometimes I find him a bit too needy.”

  Vanessa stifled a laugh. “He’s very kind to you, Daddy,” she said. “To me, too.”

  “Yes, yes. But back to your decision.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. That’s the purpose of this week between the drawing and the leaving, to figure it out. Now, I really have to go.”

  “You call me later and we’ll discuss this more. Or maybe drive over. This house gets pretty lonely, you know.”

  So he said. Repeatedly. But seek him out for this decision? Seek advice from the man who’d lied to her all these years?

  “Vanessa?”

  “Later, Daddy.”

  “I’ll be waiting to hear from you. Don’t let me down. I’m the only one who knows what’s best for you. You know that.”

  The only thing she knew was that the rock upon which she’d based her life was crumbling.

  Malibu

  Lane slammed the door to her bathroom. “No more!” she yelled.

  Her agent, Sol, answered from his side of the door. “Do not be angry at me, Lane. I’m the one who should be mad. What were you thinking buying a lottery ticket at the same moment I’m negotiating my tush off, trying to get you the part of your career?”

  “I didn’t buy it. Brandy gave it to me.” It seemed a moot point.

  “Then don’t accept the prize.”

  “Too late. I’ve already called the Time Lottery people and accepted. It’s done.”

  “Call them back. You can undo it. That’s the only answer that makes any—”

  She opened the door to face him. “Are you nuts?”

  “Sometimes. Often, working for you.”

  She pushed past him toward the living room, towering six inches over his five-foot-three frame. The phone was ringing. Again.

  Brandy stood at the breakfast bar. “Do you want me to get it?” She pointed toward the front door. “And the driveway is full of reporters.”

  Sol’s cell phone rang. Lane pointed at it. “Don’t you dare.”

  “You’re going to have to deal with them, Lane. If you won’t give back the prize, it’s your only alternative.”

  “It’s all my fault.” Brandy sat.

  “Don’t blame yourself. It was a wonderful gesture, a—”

  “Gesture?” Sol said, laughing. “Oh, that it would have stayed a gesture.”

  Lane fell onto a bar stool next to her friend, resting her head in her hands. “If only they’d leave me alone for this one week. Then I’ll do the time-travel thing and be free of them.”

  “They’ll be in your past, too. You haven’t been free of the press since you were eighteen.” He moved across from her, into the kitchen. He poked her arm, making her look up. “By the way, what year are you going to visit? What choice could you possibly regret?”

  She hated the condemnation in his eyes. The mocking. She glanced at Brandy—who expected her to revisit her Joseph connection. They’d never understand her wanting to go back to see Dawson, Minnesota, much less Toby.

  The phone and the doorbell rang at the same time. The press was getting restless. And bold. She half expected to see them on her back deck, hands cupping their faces to the window for a peek at the great Lane Holloway.

  Then suddenly, another choice presented itself like a prize behind door number two. And when she realized Toby could be a part of this choice, too, she smiled.

  “I’m waiting, Lane. What year?”

  She stood, taking the power position. Yes, this seemed right. This seemed perfect. “I’m going back to 1987.”

  “Your first movie came out in eighty-eight.”

  She nodded.

  “You still lived in Lawson, Mawson—”

  “Dawson.”

  Brandy slid off her stool. “But Joseph wasn’t in Dawson.”

  “I know.”

  “Nothing’s in Dawson.”

  “You were in Dawson—with me.”

  “Yeah, but...” Lane could see her friend go through a memory scan. Suddenly Brandy put a hand to her head. “Eighty-seven was the year we graduated. The year you won the audition and brought me with you here, to—” Her fingers danced on the counter and her head started shaking. “Oh my, Lane… no…”

  Sol looked between them. “Enough old home week. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Brandy did it for her. “She’s going back before the tryout, before the tryout that gave her the part of Bess!”

  “Bess made her a star.” He whipped around toward Lane. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  He let out a huff. “That would be like Lana Turner never going into Schwab’s Drugstore to be discovered.”

  “That didn’t happen. It’s just legend.”

  “And your point is…?”

  It was all so clear. To find Toby again, to rid herself of the pressures of stardom. All in one amazing shot. She moved to get a bottle of water. “I want to see what normal would have been like.”

  As she passed him, Sol rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. The entire world reeks of normal and would give anything to be in your movie-star shoes. And you want to join them, wallowing in mediocrity?”

  She unscrewed the cap on the water bottle. “I had a good life in Dawson.”

  “Then why did you want to leave?”

  She took her drink and moved to the window to face the ocean view. She saw a reporter tiptoe onto the deck, as if on cue, camera already snapping. She calmly closed the blinds. Soon the whole world would see what Lane looked like pulling blinds. Pitiful. She set the water down and fell onto the couch, pulling her feet beneath her.

  Sol took a seat on the ottoman. “Why don’t you go back to a time within the framework of your current life? Maybe explore what would have happened if you would have gotten the starring role in When Harry Met Sally? I’d like to know that one.”

  It wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t extreme enough. It wasn’t far enough back. Lane had come to recognize the roles she’d gotten—or not gotten—as for the best. Even her few clunkers had been learning experiences. Besides, what good did it do to live in angst about a choice that was beyond her control, a choice that often was determined by obscure factors having nothing to do with her acting ability?

  The doorbell rang a second time and they all looked in its direction. “Brave little buggers, aren’t they?” Sol said.

  “Maybe I should talk to them and get it over with.”

  “I could arrange it. I could tell them you want to give a statement.”

  Lane looked at Brandy, who stood nearby, gripping the back of the loveseat. Her eyes were flitting wildly, but she was smiling.

  “What are you thinking, Brand?”

  “I’m thinking that this is cool. To go that far back? And I’ll be there with you, I mean, not me as me now, but me as the eighteen-year-old me. We’ll have a blast—or as much of a blast as was possible in Dawson.” She smiled broadly. “I’m impressed by your gumption, Laney-girl.”

  Sol shoved the ottoman back a foot. “This is crazy. Go have a fling with some what-if moment if you want, but don’t do something so drastic. Don’t risk everything.”

  “It won’t affect you, Sol,” Lane said. “What I do in my past will not affect you here. I’m exploring my Alternity. It’s parallel. The timelines don’t intersect.” She felt dumb saying all this, as if she understood the science of it. But it was the truth, at least as she understood it. “If I go back and—”

  Sol stood. “If you go back before the audition, if you attain that precious ‘normal’ you’re after, you’ll end up staying in Dawson, marrying some Swedish farm boy, having too many kids too, too f
ast, and blending into oblivion, never to be heard of again.”

  Lane’s stomach grabbed, but she said, “What’s so bad about that?”

  “What about me?” Sol said. “Once you dig your domestic roots and don’t come back, I’m out my biggest client.”

  She couldn’t argue with his basic point. “Maybe the movies I’ve already made will have a resurgence. You get a percentage of all those…”

  “Until the novelty wears off and your audience moves on to stars who are producing new movies, better movies. Eventually you’ll be lucky to find DVDs of your movies two for ten dollars at Wal-Mart.”

  “Wow,” Brandy said, plopping down on the loveseat. “You’re quite the doomsayer, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a realist. And hey, if I’m out of a job, so are you.”

  Brandy shrugged. “You’ve known Lane a few years; I’ve known her my whole life. She’s my best friend and I love her. I’ve got the most to lose, so if I’m willing to let her do this thing so she can have a shot at something even better than she has now, then so can you.”

  Sol snickered. “Dawson, Minnesota? Better?”

  “Don’t knock it,” Brandy said.

  He squinted at her. “Didn’t you have a drunk mother back in Dawson? Didn’t you come out here with Lane as a means to escape her backhand?”

  Brandy raised her chin and pulled a pillow into her lap. “Yeah, well… what’s past is past.”

  Sol laughed. “Not anymore. Not since the Time Lottery!”

  “You’re just jealous,” Brandy said.

  “Hardly.”

  While the two of them bantered and bickered, Lane lay her head against the couch pillows. These two important people in her life could argue over the color of the sky. Finally, she’d had enough. “Come on, you two. Time-out. I’m tired. Really, really tired.”

  Brandy popped out of her seat. “That’s our cue. Everybody out.”

  Sol gathered his briefcase. “Might as well. I’m not needed here. Or there. Bye, Lane. Let me know if and when you want to be an actress again.”

  “Had to get one last dig in, didn’t you, Sol?” Brandy said.

  “Sue me.”

  Brandy gathered her things and took an exaggerated breath as they all congregated at the front door. “Ready to meet the enemy?”

  Sol sighed. “Just open it.”

  In one sweeping movement Brandy opened the door to the crowd of reporters and pushed her way through to her car. Sol followed. It was chaos.

  “Lane! Lane! Tell us—”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Go after her; maybe she knows something.”

  “That’s the agent. Mr. Epstein, what year is Lane going to visit?”

  “No comment.”

  Lane shut the door. Locked it.

  And sank to the floor.

  The Spanish tiles were cold.

  Kansas City

  Cheryl snuggled deeper against Mac’s shoulder. “You’re not here.”

  At her words, Mac blinked and realized she was right. He hadn’t been concentrating on the here and now; the fact that he had this lovely, vibrant woman in his arms; soft music playing on the stereo; the smells of dinner still lingering from the kitchen. He kissed the top of her head. “Sorry.”

  “Another group’s been chosen, Mac. Step one is done. For the most part, the technicians and scientists take over from here.”

  “I know.” It wasn’t that.

  “Are you thinking about your chance to go back? Are you thinking about Holly?”

  Bingo.

  She sat up. “Do you regret not taking the chance Wriggens gave you? I know your reason was Andrew—and a fine reason he is, but—”

  “No, no.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He laughed. “Would you please stop being so insightful, intuitive, in—”

  “Incapable of accepting bunkum as the truth?” She traced his left eyebrow with a finger. “It’s okay to be human. And it doesn’t hurt me one bit to know you’d like to go back and stop your wife from being murdered. You loved her deeply. That’s a good thing. I’m not threatened by that love. I’m inspired by it.”

  “I can’t imagine you being threatened by anything.”

  She stopped tracing and looked to the ceiling. “Hmm. You’re probably right about that.”

  “I am in awe of your confidence.”

  She faced forward, putting her feet next to his on the coffee table. “Don’t be. I’m too arrogant and egotistical to be threatened by anything. But if I were truly a nice, wise older woman, well then… I suppose I could offer you a list of fears and foibles.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “You are a nice woman, often wise, and I’ve told you our age difference means nothing to me.”

  “I have aged well.”

  It was an understatement. No one would ever guess Cheryl was in her late forties. As Mac got older himself, he’d come to realize how little age meant. It was a state of mind. And Cheryl’s mind put most twenty-year-olds to shame.

  He continued his compliments, meaning every word. “You’re a wonderful woman. An amazing woman. An astounding woman.”

  She reclaimed her spot, snuggling against his chest. “You spoil me.”

  “It’s my joy.”

  They breathed in unison a few minutes. Then she said, “I really should be going. In fact I’m leaving right now.” She did not move.

  He smiled against her hair and held her tighter.

  “Oh, Mac,” she whispered. “I’m having a tough time leaving.” She kissed a button on his shirt. “I wish I could stay.”

  Oh yes. He wanted her to. “I’d like nothing better.”

  “See?”

  “We’ve talked about this, Cheryl. We both want to do this right. What God is bringing together—”

  She slapped his chest and sat up. “Let no hormonal people put asunder. I know. I know. I hope He appreciates our sacrifice.”

  Mac stroked her hair behind her ear. “He does. And He’ll bless it when the time comes.” He caught himself. “I mean if the time—”

  She wagged a finger at him. “Uh-uh, Alexander MacMillan. You said when. Is that a proposal?”

  It was. In a way.

  “I’m waiting.”

  He kissed her cheek. “When it’s a proposal, you’ll know it’s a proposal.”

  “Promise?”

  “There will be no question.”

  Five

  With man this is impossible, but not with God;

  all things are possible with God.

  Mark 10:27

  Kansas City

  Alexander MacMillan stepped into the limo, his cell phone to his ear. Dealing with Chief Administrator Wriggens was arguably the hardest part of his job. The man needed constant reassurance—and monitoring.

  The driver closed the door and Mac settled in for the ride that would collect the winners for their final press conference. Earlier today he’d picked them up from the airport—David Stancowsky flying in from Bangor, Vanessa Caldwell flying in from Atlanta, and Lane Holloway flying in from Malibu. All were safely ensconced in the Regency Crown Center, a lovely hotel that went out of its way to cater to these Time Lottery elite.

  The limo pulled into traffic. A light snow was falling. “Things are progressing, John,” he said into the phone. “So far, so good.”

  “You call this good?” Wriggens said. “Last week, when the press initially pounced on the winners, I had high hopes for some extraordinary publicity, not just exterior shots of their homes or the incessant third-person rehash of their past accomplishments—or lack thereof. I wanted interviews with them, not segments of This Is Your Life or insipid speculation as to what year they’ll choose to visit.”
>
  Mac closed his eyes. “It’s our own doing. We beg the press to leave the winners alone during this week between the drawing and the departure so they can finalize the specific choices they want to change and make arrangements to be gone—perhaps forever. I can’t believe you’re complaining that the media is cooperating.”

  “Get off it, Mac. I don’t want cooperation. I want exploitation. We have only this one time each year. We have to make the most of it.”

  The man had no shame. More, more, more. He was never satisfied and had the capability to focus like a laser beam: The bottom line was Wriggens’s god. He wasn’t choosy about how he worshipped it and wouldn’t waste a moment if a commandment or two were broken in the process. The ends always justified the means.

  Although Mac knew applying logic would be unsuccessful, he gave it a shot. “You know the no-interview request is for the good of the winners.”

  “Yes, yes, but I bet if we took a poll, most people have their choice figured out before they even buy a ticket. This week-long interim… you’re wasting everyone’s time, Mac. Time that could best be used to promote and nourish the program. Sometimes I wonder about your loyalty and your priorities.”

  And I yours. Mac slumped in the soft leather of the limo’s seat and closed his eyes. He still had a hard evening ahead of him. “Fine. I’ll take a poll of one right now. What would you change?”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. Pin it down to one moment, one decision, one past choice.”

  “I’m not eligible to buy a ticket.”

  “But surely you’ve thought about it. Surely you’ve done some mighty soul-searching.”

  There was the slightest of pauses. “I’ve got another call. I’ll see you at the press conference.”

  Lurking in the back, no doubt.

  The limo pulled in front of the hotel. The driver went around and opened the door. As soon as Mac exited, a bevy of cameras converged, following Lane Holloway as she sprinted from the hotel entrance to the car.