Once Upon a Second Chance

by Marian Vere

  “Do you know how much I love you?” he asked, not breaking his gaze.

  I nodded.

  “And you know I would do anything for you?” He raised his hands to either side of my head, lacing his fingers into my hair.

  “I know.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, holding perfectly still. When he finally opened his eyes again, there was something new in them. Fear? Hope? And then…

  “Marry me.”

  My heart jumped to my throat. “What?” I said, although I didn’t think any sound actually came out.

  He took my hands and slid off the bench onto to his knee, never taking his eyes off mine. “Julia Lee Basham, will you marry me?”

  I sat unmoving for a moment and trying to find my voice, scared that the overwhelming happiness I felt might be enough to kill me. I smiled slowly and the fear in his eyes dissipated.

  “Yes, yes!” I threw my arms around his neck. He stood, lifting me with him, and kissed me breathless. When we finally parted, it was only at a hand’s length. He beamed.

  “This wasn’t at all how I planned on asking. I don’t even have a ring.”

  “I don’t care, this is perfect,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “Wait, you had been planning on asking?”

  “Oh, sure,” he said with a wry smile. “I even told Cathy this afternoon. That was the more pleasant half of the conversation.” He kissed my forehead, and I buried my face in his chest. “She can’t wait to meet you.”

  I couldn’t speak, and for the moment it didn’t seem that he could either. Though it didn’t matter, as there was nothing to say. He simply held me, resting his cheek on the top of my head. My mind was hazy with happiness, and the only coherent thought I could produce was that this was it—this was the beginning of our happily ever after.

  “There you are!” I look up to see Bree beside me. “We were wondering where you went.”

  “Sorry, I thought you would have been back by the time I came down.”

  Yeah, right.

  “How exciting is this! It’s like a paid vacation!”

  “Yep, I know.” Margaret goes on showings like this a few times a year, but this will be a first for Bree and me. Under any other circumstance I would be thrilled. I smile, feigning enthusiasm.

  “What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited?”

  “Sure, I’m fine, just…” I pause, looking for the right word.

  “Overwhelmed?” she asks, her inflection implying it was a good thing.

  “I guess.” You have no idea.

  “It will be so great! And we get to go together!” She was practically busting.

  “So where in Maine is this?” I ask.

  “Not sure. On the coast somewhere. I’m not familiar with the town. It’s not too far from Bangor. You have a friend up there, don’t you?”

  “I do. Susan. I wonder if we will be anywhere near her.”

  Susan Tinder was one of my best friends growing up. We lived just down the road from each other as kids in Hamilton, New York, and were practically inseparable. We had sleepovers almost every weekend, campouts in the summer, and neither of our sets of parents were surprised to see an additional mouth at the dinner table most evenings. We both went away for college—she to Duke and me to NYU—and haven’t seen much of each other since, but we e-mail a few times a month. The last time I saw her was at her wedding three years ago. It was held at her and her husband’s new home on the Maine shore, which her mother and extremely wealthy stepfather had bought them as a wedding gift. Maybe I would get a chance to see her. That would be at least one light at the end of this tunnel that isn’t a train ready to hit me head-on.

  A moment later, Margaret appears with two black portfolios in her hand.

  “All right, ladies, here are your dossiers. This is everything we have on the estate as of this morning.”

  As Margaret continues to ramble, I slip the folio—just another piece of the nightmare—into my bag, determined not to look at it until I absolutely have to.

  Two hours later I stumble into my small apartment, drop my bag on the floor, and fall onto my couch. Margaret, Bree, and I had spent the better part of an hour hammering out the details of tomorrow’s trip. Margaret reserved a company SUV, and we are scheduled to meet her outside the SMS building at four tomorrow morning to drive up.

  Yay.

  Since we had to be up so early, Margaret told us both to take the rest of the day off to pack and get ready. We would be in Maine for four days, arriving on Thursday and leaving on Monday. And of course, we would all be staying in the house on the Marston Estate. Our dossiers included—so I was told, as I hadn’t opened mine yet—not only pictures, floor plans, and maps of the house and property, but also a list of inspections and appraisals Margaret, Bree, and I would need to be present for.

  This is, after all, a work trip.

  I roll over, pick up my laptop from the floor, and turn it on. Margaret had mentioned that the estate was in Toulston, which is only two towns away from where Susan lives. I type up a quick e-mail to her, letting her know I will be in the area.

  I shut my laptop and wander into the kitchen. A lengthy internal battle ensues on whether or not to open a bottle of wine. My practical side argues that it is only two o’clock in the afternoon, not to mention I still have the remnants of a headache from last night’s wine-fest, while my emotional side argues inarticulately, “To hell with it all, I need a drink!” I finally decide a bowl of ice cream is the healthier way to go.

  How sad is your life when ice cream is the healthiest option.

  I take my bowl of Moose Tracks into the bedroom, pull out my suitcase, and reluctantly begin packing. I start out thoughtfully selecting outfits, thinking about the occasions for each, but by the end I mindlessly pull things out of my closet and throw them into the case—my thoughts are somewhere else completely.

  Somewhere specific, actually.

  The dossier.

  I slump down on the edge of the bed and look down the hall at the black tri-fold sticking up out of my work bag. Why is it scaring me so much? Is “scaring” even the right word? It’s a few pieces of paper, nothing worth getting my panties in a bunch over. Preparing to bite the bullet, I take a deep breath and will my feet to carry me over to the bag. A moment later I am looking at the specs for Marston Estate:

  52-Acre Property

  Main House Square Feet: 26,515

  Main House Built: 1938

  Expanded: 1942, 1955, 1958, 1969, 1983

  Fully Refurbished: 2009

  Bedrooms: 11

  Bathrooms: 13 full - 5 half

  Guest House Square Feet: 5,238

  Guest House Bedrooms: 4

  Guest House Bathrooms: 3 full - 1 half

  Asking Price: $47,000,000.00

  Dear…Sweet…God…

  4

  IT’S FOUR A.M., and Bree and I are outside the SMS Financial building with our pillows and bags, waiting for Margaret to come around Chambers Street with the company SUV.

  It would be wrong of me to complain about having to get up at three a.m. due to the fact that “getting up” would imply that I’d slept. I’d tossed and turned all night, so dreading today’s trip that by the time three o’clock finally rolled around, I was actually happy to have an activity to distract myself.

  We have been standing out here for going on fifteen minutes, but of course as soon as I decide to unload my arms and take a seat on the curb, Margaret pulls around the corner in a brand new black Escalade.

  Wow.

  Pretty impressive for a company car, though they’re primarily used for escorting clients, and I guess you can’t drive multi-millionaires around in a soccer-mom van.

  “Here we are, girls,” Margaret says as she hops out and pops the back hatch open for our stuff. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  I nod, while Bree can only muster a yawn.

  We pile our bags in the back, and climb into the very roomy, coffee-scented interior. I crawl to the last row o
f seats, while Bree claims a spot in the middle row. The front passenger seat is filled with huge to-go coffees and a box of doughnuts.

  Ah, Margaret.

  Bree and I get settled while Margaret climbs back into the driver’s seat. “Okay, now everyone have some breakfast.” She hands back the doughnut box. “The GPS says it will take eight hours, but I bet I can get us there in seven. That will give us two hours to unpack and relax before our preliminary walkthrough.”

  “What time will Mr. Kerkley and his family get there?” Bree asks between bites of doughnut.

  “They are set to arrive around three.”

  “Oh, so they won’t be there for the walk through?” Bree asks. Does she sound…disappointed?

  “No, I told Mr. Kerkley not to bother. We can handle it and fill him in later.”

  With that, we all settle into our seats and I try my best to get comfortable enough to sleep. I end up propping my pillow against the window, figuring it’d be too juvenile to sprawl out across the entire back row.

  After an hour or so of unsatisfying catnaps, I feel an arm on my shoulder.

  “Jules, are you awake?” Bree whispers.

  “Yep.” I yawn, stretching my back. “I gave up on sleep a while ago. What’s up?”

  “Can I come back and sit with you?”

  “Sure.” I kick my small bag on the floor to make room, and Bree crawls back and sits cross-legged on the seat next to me. She looks almost worried, which is odd considering how excited she’s been.

  “Bree, what’s wrong?”

  “I think I have a problem. I don’t know what to do. It’s wildly inappropriate,” she whispers, leaning in.

  “Okay,” I say, trying not to sound amused. As if Bree could ever be inappropriate.

  “I think I have a crush on Mr. Kerkley.”

  Amusement gone. “What?”

  “I know, I know, it’s crazy, but I can’t help it! He is just so…”

  Perfect, handsome, kind, sweet, compassionate?

  “I don’t know what to do. It’s wrong, right? Isn’t it wrong?”

  Oh, great, what the hell am I supposed to say? I suddenly get a weird vision of a cliché cartoon angel and devil that both look like me, floating in the air by my head. Do I side with the angel and tell her no, it’s really not that big a deal? It’s really not, especially considering Angela, one of the junior consultants from a partner group actually married one of her clients about two years ago. They’ve since moved to the Hamptons and, if rumors are to be believed, now have twins. She would obviously have to be discreet about it, but this is Bree we’re talking about. She’s never exactly been the type to take every client to bed with her—and believe me, there are those who do. If she and Mr. Kerkley were to start a low key, mutually agreed upon relationship, I highly doubt anyone would bat an eye.

  That’s what I should tell her. That’s the truth. However, my possessive, territorial, selfish side wants to tell her that it’s a huge deal, she will probably get fired, and that she should stay away from him. Then maybe hiss or click my tongue at her for good measure. Basically, be a catty bitch. And for what? So I can keep imaginary possession of a man I have absolutely no right to claim in the first place?

  I look over into her overly concerned face, and realize I have to do the right thing. Or at least mostly the right thing. “Well, it’s only a crush right? I mean, are you actually planning to do anything about it?”

  Please say no…

  “Oh, I don’t think I ever could. I am way too shy. I just feel so guilty for some reason.”

  Okay, don’t be a bitch, be a good friend, don’t be a bitch, be a good friend…

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. If something were to happen where he approached you, you could ask Margaret, but otherwise, it’s just a crush—no big deal. Besides, you were the one who said how different he is compared to all our other clients. He is the first one you could even think about actually being with, or even seeing in that sort of a light. I’m sure that’s all it is. Just take a deep breath, and see how it plays out. No need to panic yet.”

  No need to panic.

  “Yes,” she agrees, visibly relaxing. “You’re right, I’m overreacting. Still though—” she smiles, and gets dreamy-eyed “—if he approached me…wow, how amazing would that be! You really don’t think Margaret would mind?”

  “She always says ‘whatever it takes to keep the client happy.’” I say it with what I hope is a believable smile. Bree giggles.

  “Who knows,” she sighs, resting back on the seat. “Maybe I have a fairy godmother who will make it all magically work out.”

  She is obviously kidding, but the knot in my chest gives an unpleasant squeeze. Sure, why not—a grandma with a wand shows up and makes me watch while she gives my Nick away to another woman—sounds about right.

  “Oh.” Bree sits up. “That reminds me. Why didn’t you tell me you already knew him?” My stomach turns over. “Yesterday when we were leaving the meeting, Margaret apologized to Nick for not having had much of a chance to meet with you, and he said that the two of you were already acquainted. He said you had met the last time he was living in New York, a few years ago. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Oh God. Okay, make something up.

  “Oh, um, I guess I didn’t realize it was him.”

  Wow, lame.

  “I figured it was something like that. After all, yesterday was the first time you actually saw him, and he said you hadn’t known each other well.”

  Wait, what? “He said we didn’t know each other well?”

  “Not in so many words, he just said that if he hadn’t have seen your name, he wouldn’t have recognized you, so I figured you weren’t close.”

  What?

  Bree yawns and leans back in her seat, turning to look out the window while I try to control my breathing.

  Wouldn’t have recognized me?

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? I haven’t seriously changed that much, have I? Was he just trying to insult me? No, that couldn’t be it; it’s not like him. But what, then? For God’s sake, I could pick him out of a crowded room in less than a second, and he wouldn’t have even recognized me?

  Suddenly there is a painful squeezing in my chest, and a lump closes my throat.

  So it’s true, then. He has moved on and forgotten me.

  Of course he has. What did I expect?

  I turn to the window and lean my head against the glass so Bree can’t see my nostrils flare or my eyes water. No wonder he greeted me the way he did yesterday. It’s exactly how you would expect a person to greet someone who means nothing to them.

  Unfortunately, the trip to Maine doesn’t go as smoothly as we had hoped. We hit traffic in Connecticut, which led to us needing to stop for a lunch break, which made us hit more traffic outside of Bangor, which led to us arriving at the estate exactly fifteen minutes before our scheduled walkthrough.

  As we make our way down the seemingly endless driveway, we see the executor, Mr. Clifton, waiting for us.

  “Oh, my gosh, this is so embarrassing!” Bree says, gesturing to the fact that she and I are still wearing pajama pants and ratty T-shirts. “We were supposed to get here early enough to change!”

  “Don’t worry, we’re parking at the guesthouse. Maybe he will have it open and you girls can run in,” Margaret says, pulling up to a gray stone house with a long, white front porch. She hops out and greets Mr. Clifton, confirms that the guesthouse is open, and that we are more than welcome to use it to freshen up.

  Mr. Clifton takes Margaret around back to show her the guesthouse garden while Bree and I grab our bags and run inside. As we step into the entryway, our mouths drop.

  “This is the guest house?” Bree whispers.

  It is huge.

  After a few moments of gawking, Bree finds a bathroom just to the left of the entry and goes in to change. I continue to look around in awe, feeling a bit queasy. The house is spectacular. It has to be as large as most of th
e East Hampton homes we normally help clients purchase, easily selling on its own for two to three million.

  I wander down the hall, looking for a guest room to change in, instead finding a sitting room with a private washroom attached.

  Yeah, because most sitting rooms have their own bathroom. Sure, why not.

  I change quickly and step back out into the sitting room. There is a huge bay window on the wall opposite the door, which is covered by a thick embroidered curtain. I pull one corner of it back so I can peek out—and almost fall over.

  There it is.

  The main house.

  It’s practically a castle. Gray stone like the guesthouse, peaked roof, columned entry, three stories tall, and big as a hotel. Yet somehow, it’s not overbearing, gaudy, or garish. It is welcoming and happy.

  And it’s all going to be his.

  “You can’t be serious, Jules!”

  “Damn it, Lisa, you’re supposed to be happy for me!”

  I was furious. I’d gone to Lisa to tell her about my engagement and get her support, but she was treating the whole thing like a joke.

  “I would be happy for you if you were using your God damned head!”

  “You said you liked him!”

  “I do, but…” She let out a long sigh and reached across the table to take my hands. “Listen, honey. I’m sorry to be so blunt. I didn’t mean to yell or upset you. You just caught me off guard. I do like Nick. He seems like a nice guy, and I know you like him a lot, but that doesn’t mean you should marry him.”

  “We love each other.”

  “Of course you do! You’ve been together for three months! It’s puppy love, and everyone goes through it! He’s the center of the universe, he’s perfect, all the songs on the radio are about him, you can’t imagine life without him, so on and so forth. I get it, really I do. The problem is, that’s not real love.”