Once Upon a Second Chance

by Marian Vere

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s the first guy you have ever been in love with! What do you have to compare it to?”

  “Just because I can’t compare it to anything doesn’t mean I don’t know what love is.”

  “Okay, fine, let’s say for the sake of argument that it is love. Don’t you see that’s not even the real problem here? Do you honestly think love is all a marriage needs?”

  “Yes, actually I do.”

  “Jules, listen to me. Now you’re going to get mad at me for saying this, but the fact of the matter is—”

  “What?”

  “You can do so much better than him!”

  She was lucky she still had hold of my hands or I might have hit her. “How can you—”

  “Listen to me for a second, okay? Just hear me out.” Satisfied that I wasn’t going to interrupt, she continued. “You can talk till you’re blue in the face about his dreams, and ambitions, and all his wonderful ideas for this fabulous business, and all the great things he’s going to do. That’s all well and good. The fact remains that you can’t build a future on what might be. You can only go on what is, and at the end of the day, he is a college dropout, with no money, no real job to speak of, and a bunch of pie-in-the-sky dreams with no foundation. And now, with nothing else in his life in order, he wants to get married!

  “On the other hand, you graduated top of your class, have an amazing internship that will lead to an amazing job where you’ll be making a lot of money. Do you think he’s the only person out there with no real prospects, mooching—”

  “He’s not mooching!”

  “Fine, relying on his friends and family? Friends and family who he has talked into believing that he will someday ‘make it’ and pay them all back? I’m sorry, but as it stands right now, he’s going nowhere, Jules.”

  “I believe in him. You don’t know him,” I said quietly, feeling my resolve begin to sway. Did she have a point? She had always been a no-nonsense person, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, and she was so sure what I was feeling wasn’t real. Was it? It certainly felt real.

  “No, honey, I don’t, but neither do you, not really. And that’s my point. I’m not saying he’s a bad guy, or that he is deliberately misleading you. I’m sure he’s not. I’m just saying he isn’t marriage material for someone like you.”

  “I’ve already said yes. I want to say yes!”

  “Tell him you’ve thought about it and changed your mind about marriage, but you still want to stay together. Maybe things will work out later.”

  “Oh yeah, ’cause that works. We would never be happy after that; it would always be between us.”

  “Make it out to be your fault. Tell him you just aren’t the marrying type, or you’re worried about your own career right now, or something like that.”

  “He’ll never buy that. He knows me.”

  “Well…then maybe it’s not meant to be,” she said, and I felt the tears welling in my eyes. “Listen, honey, you know I’m right. You came here to get my support, but if you were absolutely sure about all this, you wouldn’t have needed it. Most of the wisest decisions aren’t the easiest, but you have to have the guts to make them. Yes, it’ll hurt for a while, but you have to believe me, it’s for the best.”

  I bowed my head and closed my eyes, letting the tears roll down my cheeks. Maybe I was only thinking with my heart and not my head. After all, a lot of what she had said was true. Besides, I didn’t know if I could do something that my sister was so strongly against. She had always guided me, and I wanted her approval.

  Maybe this is what I needed—a rational voice to put things in perspective without sugar coating it. Lisa had always known best. I didn’t agree, but that didn’t mean she was wrong.

  Maybe she was right.

  5

  MY INITIAL ASSESSMENT of the main house and surrounding grounds is right on the money. It is the most beautiful place I had ever set foot in. If the outside of the manor is gorgeous, then the inside is transcendent. Hardwood floors with high crown molded ceilings, a grand double staircase surrounding the foyer, floor-to-ceiling windows in all the bedrooms, an enormous two-story gourmet kitchen, a formal dining room, plus it’s listed to be sold fully furnished.

  The surrounding park has been well cared for and would be a nature lover’s paradise. The flower garden is lovely, the wooded areas have trails, and there’s even a small produce and herb garden to use for the kitchen.

  We spend almost three hours on our tour, walking through room after room of gorgeous furniture and art. I am particularly impressed with the library as it is incredibly-well stocked. The only part of the day I opt out of—claiming a need for the restroom—is the tour of the master suite. I really don’t need to have an actual mental image of the rooms he’ll one day share with his wife.

  My imagination works well enough on its own, thanks.

  Margaret pours over every small detail, making lists of what would need professional inspection, what would need fixing, and what should be appraised. Once the preliminary evaluation is complete, we gather back in the foyer to debrief.

  “That should be all for today,” Margaret says, shaking Mr. Clifton’s hand. “Thank you so much for coming out.”

  “Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you ladies. I’ll come back tomorrow for the plumbing and structural inspections. Just leave me a message with the times.”

  After another round of good-byes he was gone, leaving Margaret, Bree, and me to go to our separate rooms to relax and unpack. My room is amazing, though having seen the rest of the house, this doesn’t really surprise me. I throw my suitcase on the bed, pondering whether or not to unpack. I really don’t want to spend the next four days living out of my tiny suitcase, but looking around at the ornate furniture in my room, I’m almost afraid to take anything out. Stupid as it sounds, I have this mental image of the elegant solid oak armoire repelling my jeans and plain cotton underwear like an opposing magnet. The doors and drawers will then all lock tight and a little sign will pop out that reads “No designer tag, no service.”

  With a huff, I sit on the edge of the bed, rest my face in my hands, and rub my eyes. Why am I here? All I want to do is go home or, at the very least, crawl into bed, sleep away the next week, and pretend none of this ever happened. Afterward, I can get on with my mundane, humiliation-free life. Is that really too much to ask?

  I stand, groaning, and shuffle over to the window. Dear God, look at all that space. What would I do with all of this? This land, this house—all too big. Maybe everything has been for the best. Come on, I could never live in a place like this. I’d get lost going to the bathroom. And how many bedrooms are there? Eleven? What would I do with eleven bedrooms? Hell, I don’t even have eleven friends!

  I begin counting on my fingers: Lisa, Bree, Susan…Margaret…

  …um…

  Susan’s husband, Matt, though he would obviously share a room with Susan, so I guess technically he wouldn’t count, but for the sake of padding my numbers, he’s going in…And that nice guy who lives across the hall from me that let me watch TV with him when I locked myself out of the apartment that time. I think his name is Tom. Oh, and I guess I could count Zach, but only if I’m desperate.

  There, what was what, seven? Barely half. See, this life would definitely never work for me.

  Definitely.

  The bedroom door opens with a bang. I whirl around to see a startled and embarrassed man with a suitcase.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, I thought…I’m s-sorry,” he stammers, trying to quickly pull his bag back through the door. “I didn’t know.” He yanks on the handle of his roller bag without aiming, causing it to hit the doorframe and pop open, spilling his stuff all over the floor. “Damn it!” He scrambles to grab everything back up.

  “Easy, easy,” I say, going over to help him. He’s actually a good-looking guy. Tall with blond hair, green eyes, and red, red cheeks—though I’m pretty sure that last one has l
ess to do with looks and more to do with his current extreme embarrassment. Not sure why though; it’s not like I’m naked. “Here, let me help.”

  “I’m so sorry. I thought this was my room. I didn’t know you were in here.” He flushes even more, if that’s possible.

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I smile, hoping to ease his mind. “This place is enormous, so I very well may be in the wrong room,” I add to reassure him. I know very well this is my room; he just looks so upset. He must be an extremely shy person to worry so much over something so innocent.

  “It is huge, isn’t it?” he says, his shoulders relaxing a bit.

  “I’m Julia,” I say, as we pick up his clothes.

  “Chris.” He gives me a shy smile. “Are you a friend of Nick’s?”

  Wince. “No, I’m here with the financial team.” Ah, so he must be one of the friends Nick—Mr. Kerkley brought with him.

  “Oh, right. I guess you must stay in houses like this all the time.”

  “No, actually, this is pretty rare.” I’m exceedingly glad for the quick change of subject, and he seems to be relaxing.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t know what to do with all this space.”

  “I was just thinking that same thing!” I blurt out, but then remember that I’m here for a client who is not paying me for my opinion, or to vocalize to his friends that I think his choice of house is excessive. “But to each their own.”

  He smiles and we finish repacking his bag. He seems sweet. Incredibly shy and obviously a bit awkward, but nice.

  He stands, taking his bag again. “Well, I guess I should go find my room. You wouldn’t happen to know—”

  “I do actually.” I lead him out the door. “There. You were close, it is the first door on the right, but down that hall.” I point to the hall adjacent to mine, which had been designated earlier during our tour as the wing for the client and his guests.

  “Great, thanks. It was nice to meet you, and sorry again.” Some of the pink returns to his cheeks.

  “Nice to meet you too, and I’m sure I’ll see you later.”

  He heads off down the hall, and I resume my unpacking efforts. Once I confirm that the furniture will in fact allow my less-than-posh clothes entrance into their keeping, I put all my stuff away, then make a temporary workstation at the desk by the window. After I set up my laptop, I realize that we have a working wireless signal.

  Of course. After all, what castle would be complete without the Internet? What was I thinking?

  I open my e-mail and see that Susan has sent me a reply.

  Julia,

  Matt and I will be leaving to see my family on Saturday, but I am free all day Friday. It would be so great to see you! We can meet at the Ryce Commons Shopping Center, it’s just about halfway between us, and it should only take you fifteen minutes or so to get there. I have attached directions for you. Just let me know what time you can get away.

  Talk to you soon,

  - Susan

  Suddenly I feel a wave of relief. It will be so nice to see her again, and I desperately need someone to talk to.

  Susan,

  I won’t be needed here until noon tomorrow, so how about breakfast? Maybe around 9:00? Can’t wait to see you!

  - JB

  Good. At least something to look forward to.

  It’s a good thing I set my alarm to wake me up for dinner, or I probably would have slept straight through to breakfast. I stare up at the ceiling, listening for nearby activity, but hear nothing.

  Everyone must be downstairs.

  I am also suddenly aware that, as it’s almost six, Mr. Kerkley will have arrived by now.

  In an attempt to ignore that last thought—and the knot of panic it brought with it—I get up, throw on jeans and a blouse, and take a look in the mirror. Happy with what I see, I step over to the door, but then hesitate.

  I could open this door and he could be standing there.

  No, damn it, stop it! You can’t keep doing this! Act normal, for God’s sake. You’re on your way to dinner, everyone will be there, and you can’t show up freaking out like an idiot! Pull it together!

  You can handle it.

  Try as I might, I start to lose it. My hand, which is currently frozen on the doorknob, begins to shake.

  How am I going to do this? What will I say? Will I even have to talk? There are plenty of people here now; surely someone else—who preferably hasn’t slept with the client—can do the talking. That way I can sit quietly in a corner and count the seconds until we leave.

  I let out a long breath and lean my forehead against the closed door. What is wrong with me? I can’t keep doing this. I have to grow up and handle this like an adult. If he can reach a point where everything that was between us means nothing, and can casually co-exist with me as though I’m not even there, then damn it, so can I. I’m done hiding, and done with awkwardness and shame. Starting now, I’m taking my life back! From this moment on, he is nobody. Just another client, just another account. Nothing different, nothing special.

  Sure. I can do that. Why not? He seems to have no problem, so why should I?

  With new determination in my step, I walk out into the hall, chin held high, and head down for dinner. I find the massive staircase and start down with extra bounce in my step. This will be nothing! Why didn’t I come up with this earlier? I’ll treat him the way I treat every other client I have dealt with. Maybe I will even strike up a conversation with him, just to show him how okay I am with all this. Nothing too personal though, maybe something about the house? Or the grounds?

  No! No, I’ll come up with it on the spot. If I plan out what I am going to say it will sound staged. It has to be natural. After all, I talk to people every day without planning out conversations, so he will get the same treatment.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs and hear voices. I make sure Margaret is one of them before tracking them to the kitchen, stopping just before the arched entryway and taking a deep breath.

  All right, here we go. You can do this. Operation Take Your Life Back begins now.

  I take the last confident step into the large kitchen and survey my surroundings.

  Off to my left, Margaret is talking with Chris and another man. He must be the second friend Mr. Kerkley invited. Further down, I see a man and a woman—Cathy and her husband, I assume—looking over some paperwork.

  However, I don’t see Bree, or Mr. Kerkley.

  I walk over to greet Margaret, and meet the man she is talking to. Sure, why not? If I am going to be indifferent and friendly to him, I have to be indifferent and friendly to his guests as well. Besides, I would like to talk to Chris again.

  “Julia,” Margaret says when she sees me beside her. “This is Mr. Derek Ross, and Mr. Chris Langston, friends of Mr. Kerkley. Gentlemen, this is Julia Basham, the other member of our team.”

  Mr. Ross is a tall man with light brown hair who seems very pleasant. He greets me with a warm smile, while Chris, I notice, stays back.

  I extend a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ross.”

  “Derek, please.” He warmly shakes my hand.

  “Derek,” I repeat politely.

  See, this isn’t bad at all.

  “And Mr. Langston and I have already met,” I add, smiling kindly at Chris. He smiles back, but says nothing. It’s now clear that he had not actually been a part of the conversation between Derek and Margaret. He had been hanging back and listening quietly, his shyness seeming to have gotten the better of him.

  “Is everyone here then?” I ask Margaret, still noting the absence of Mr. Kerkley.

  “Yes, everyone’s here. Over there is Mr. and Mrs. Rob and Cathy Dewitt, Mr. Kerkley’s sister and brother-in-law.”

  “Where is Bree?”

  “She and Mr. Kerkley stepped out to look at the garden,” she says with a knowing smile that makes my stomach twist.

  “Oh.” I try to ignore the sharp pang in my chest.

  I’m disappointed, but only bec
ause I can’t approach Mr. Kerkley and show him how fine I am with this whole situation as soon as I had planned.

  That’s all.

  Yeah…

  Margaret turns and continues her conversation with Derek, while I step over beside Chris.

  “So did you find your room?” I ask with a grin.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “No random women this time?”

  “No.” He laughs, blushing slightly. “Too bad,” he adds, his flush deepening.

  A few moments later I am vaguely aware of the outside door opening as Bree and Mr. Kerkley rejoin the group.

  Sure, vaguely. We’ll go with that.

  “Excuse me, everyone,” Mr. Kerkley calls out, effectively ending everyone’s conversations. “Just a few things real quick. First, since there is no food here yet, I had Cathy call for pizzas. I hope that’s okay with everyone.”

  Only then do I look over and see Bree still standing next to him.

  Like right next to him.

  Not that it matters.

  “And secondly,” he continues, “Miss St. Charles and I have had an idea.”

  They’ve had five minutes together in the garden, and already they’re talking in plurals?

  Not that it matters.

  “Since there are no inspections scheduled for Sunday, and the weather is supposed to be nice, what would everyone say to a trip to the beach?”

  An excited murmur indicates that everyone thinks it’s a great idea, while I try to muster a believable smile. Mr. Kerkley moves to join his sister and brother at the far counter, but not before resting a hand on Bree’s arm and giving her a heart-shattering smile. The knot twists in my chest.

  Great, a whole day at the beach where we can all watch Bree and Mr. Kerkley frolic in the sand.

  No, wait…take a deep breath.

  It’s fine. Everything’s fine. It will be fun.

  No big deal.

  Stay the course, damn it!

  Though it does look like I will need to buy a swimsuit at the shopping center tomorrow. Speaking of…

  “Margaret.” I turn to her. “Would you mind if I went out for a few hours tomorrow morning before the inspections? I have a friend who lives nearby, and we would like to meet if it’s all right.”