Second Chances 101 (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella Book 5)

by Donna K. Weaver

  He forced his hand to unclench and used it to gently stroke Sam’s long hair. The tightness in her shoulders relaxed, and it wasn’t very long before her breathing slowed. Careful not to disturb her, he raised his feet to the ottoman and pulled a throw from the back of the couch, tossing it over her.

  Leaning back his head, Alex closed his eyes. If he was going to yell at anyone, it was Vicki. But not where Sam could hear.

  It was nearly three weeks before Alex got the call he had been waiting for, longer than usual. His ex-wife could only go so long before she had to get her “dis Alex fix.” He had gotten through the first year after the divorce thinking that he would have less contact with Vicki once Sam had turned eighteen. Not so. His daughter might have become an adult, but sometimes it seemed that all he had to do was think about his ex, and she would call in all her snarky splendor.

  He was glad Mrs. Davis was still away from her desk, so he wouldn’t have to hold back. He still hadn’t been able to bring himself to apologize to her. She continued to look at him like he was a cell under a microscope. Or maybe something to be dissected—or vivisected. It did serve him right, but how long was the woman going to stay mad at him?

  Alex clicked the speaker button on his phone and leaned back in his chair. He was determined not to lose the upper hand in this conversation.

  “Hello, Vicki.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “It was good enough for seventeen years.”

  “I merely put up with it for all those years.”

  Alex could imagine how she must be tilting her nose in the air. He usually replaced the image with one of a turkey looking up in a rainstorm and drowning in its stupidity.

  “What do you want to talk about, Victoria?”

  “The only thing I would make any call to you about. My daughter.”

  “Our daughter.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Sam was pretty upset when she came home a few weeks ago.”

  “You know how emotional she is. She’ll get over it.”

  An image of Sam’s tear-stained face went through Alex’s mind, and he clenched his fists, fighting against an adrenaline rush. When Vicki blew off their daughter like that, he always got angry. When he got mad, he didn’t show up well, and Vicki knew it.

  “Have you made up your mind about Samantha’s study abroad next semester?”

  “I’m still talking about what happened to upset Sam.” He winced at the edge in his voice and took a deep breath.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Badmouth me all you want.” Alex was pleased at his level voice. “But save it for when Sam’s not with you. It’s not fair to her.”

  “Don't tell me what's fair to my daughter. She has to see you as you really are and not be blinded by her childish devotion. I don’t want her to make the same mistake I did.”

  Childish devotion? Heat flushed through him, and he wiped his top lip. Yes, Sam was immature for her age and had been since the day she had caught her mother in bed with a man other than Alex. He had often wondered if his daughter’s retreat into immaturity had been an unconscious attempt to restore her stolen innocence.

  But he wasn’t going to remind Vicki of that. The woman wasn’t sorry about her infidelity. The one time he had brought it up, she had launched into him with a long list of his sexual failings. Alex felt a little sick. Vicki couldn't be sharing her thoughts on that with Sam. Please. He took a deep breath.

  “Anything in particular about me you were picking apart this time?”

  “The list is so long.” Vicki let out an exaggerated sigh. “That weekend I told Sam I didn’t want her saddled with a man like you, who has no ambition. You’ve wasted your life teaching history—history, Alexis!—in a podunk town in an insignificant state. I tried to guide you, but like most men with small ideas you wouldn’t have it.”

  The old argument always made his pulse quicken, and he didn’t try to lower his voice this time. They had argued about this again and again through the years they had been married. He wanted to teach, not administer programs. When had Vicki become this vicious woman?

  “Stop it, Vicki! Stop pitting Sam between us.”

  “Oh, now you’re yelling at me.” Her voice came out a satisfied purr. “I hope Samantha is there to see this nasty side to your personality. I could tell her all about the violence.”

  “Violence? What are you talking about?” Alex sputtered.

  “Oh, I could tell her all about the times you wanted to hit me. I could see it in your face. She needs to know how much you frightened me, how it drove me into the arms of another man. Yes, thank you for reminding me. I think our next mother-daughter chat should include a little discussion about violent men. Now, enough about you, Alexis. I want to know what you’ve decided about Samantha studying abroad next semester.”

  “I told you already.” Weary, Alex let Vicki change the topic.

  “Samantha says she won’t go unless you give your blessing. Why are you taking so long to decide? Alexis, we have discussed how important it is for her to be exposed to the European culture.”

  “No, we didn’t discuss any such thing. You told me I was paying for her to go on study abroad. I told you Sam had mentioned it to me.”

  Alex hated the thought of vulnerable Sam being gone so long and under her mother’s less-than-tender care. Vicki's husband had a bad reputation for holding wild parties. During the summer, Alex was sure he had seen a picture of his ex-wife in a Paris newspaper at a party where a lot of people had been arrested and where there had been accusations of the presence of underage drinking and date rape drugs.

  “You’re a pathetic excuse for a father. You’ve never loved her,” Vicki said, her tone taking on an essence that always made him feel like someone had poured acid down his throat, and it was burning its way to his heart. “Depriving your daughter just so you can feed your ego.”

  Alex clenched his jaw while she ranted on. She’s goading you. Don’t fall for it. If he lost control, he would gain nothing, and he didn't want to get pulled into playing her games again. He clung to the thought that Sam had said she wouldn’t go without his blessing.

  “Vicki,” he said, when she seemed to be running out of steam. She went off again, so he raised his voice. “Vicki.”

  “I’m done talking to you, Alexis.”

  “What did I do that made you hate me so much?”

  She paused. “You stopped being a man.” The phone went dead.

  Francie put the earphones in her ears with shaking hands. She really hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. If she had realized Professor Diederik was having a private conversation, she would have slipped back out of the office. He must have been so engrossed in that awful phone call not to have heard her return. The conversation had drawn her right in, and she had forgotten she shouldn’t be listening to it.

  Now that he had hung up, Francie typed furiously, hoping to look busy and not guilty. When he didn't come out, she pulled the headset from her ears. The door was open, but she couldn't hear anything from the room.

  “Stopped being a man.” What an emasculating thing for that shrew to have said. Francie couldn't understand why she felt so defensive of the poor man. After all, he was the one who had yelled at her and said such insulting things. He probably deserved—

  Francie leaned back in her chair. No, she didn't believe he had deserved those horrible words. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she was sure Professor Diederik had been about to apologize to her a couple of times. And she had cut him cold. Ashamed of herself, Francie wondered if she was no better than that . . . woman. No better than Greg. Francie felt a little sick.

  Putting in the earphones again, she went back to work. A few minutes later, she sensed more than saw the professor come out of his office and pause. Francie kept working, pretending she didn’t know he was there.

  “Mrs. Davis?” His voice was tentative.

  She didn’t answer, just plucked away at the ke
yboard, hoping he wouldn’t notice the trembling of her hands. If she looked at him, would he be able to tell she had overheard?

  “Mrs. Davis.” Professor Diederik’s voice was louder then.

  Francie steeled her expression and turned in her chair. “Oh, Professor. Are you off to class now? I’ll have this finished before you get back, so I’ll just go take care of Professor Eldred’s work when I’m done.”

  “Good plan.”

  Watching him leave almost hurt. Everything about his posture as he walked down the hall spoke of defeat. Had Professor Diederik been on the phone with that witch just before the incident with the student the first day of school, when he had snapped at Francie? She was pretty sure she would strike out at people after talking to the woman.

  Was the professor's ex-wife like Greg had been, making snide, cutting remarks—little jabs that could just as easily have been done with a knife? And left as many scars? Greg had always apologized later, promising he hadn't meant to hurt her.

  Every year he had gotten worse, shouting about how stupid and lazy and ugly she was. If he hadn't been saddled with her, he could have done something with his life. Francie had believed it. That was why her parents had thrown her away at eighteen, why Greg couldn't find anything good about her. She was the problem.

  Then he had started in on Rafe. Beaten down, Francie could believe she was stupid and inadequate, but her perfect little son wasn’t. And she wouldn't sit back and let Greg say those awful things to a child.

  She glanced toward the professor’s open office door. That awful woman. And they had a daughter? Francie shivered and turned back to her work. She couldn’t let him know she had overheard, but she wanted to do something to cheer him up.

  After putting paper in the printer, Francie pulled her purse out from under the desk. For lunch, she had brought a small jar of a new preserve she had made. Rafe had named the original version Cheberry Preserves, a blend of strawberries, raspberries, and cherries. With this batch, she had added a hint of jalapeño, to what she thought was great effect. She was sure Rafe would love it and hoped the professor did too.

  So many times over the years, especially after Greg had had a bad day, she would have appreciated a gesture of kindness from someone. Anyone. Francie polished the little jar with her blouse and went into Professor Diederik’s office. Not wanting to spy, she didn't look around but placed the preserves in the middle of the desk so he would be sure to see it first thing.

  Feeling better than she had since she had begun the job, Francie finished her morning work and headed to the Central Dining Hall where she hoped to get ahead on her assigned reading while she ate lunch. Her stomach was rumbling by the time she found a little table tucked away in a corner. She sat with her back to the wall.

  One thing she loved was being able to get a good view of the college environment. She still didn't feel a part of it, but she loved being around people, especially those who were actively engaged in learning. The place was bustling with people. Francie wasn’t surprised when a girl carrying a tray approached the table.

  “I can’t find a seat anywhere else. Can I share your table?” The strawberry blond girl didn’t wait for an answer but slid her tray on the table, pushing Francie’s book against her lunch bag. The girl pulled a phone from her backpack and started typing on it.

  Recognizing her, Francie closed the book, deciding this might be more entertaining. She wished she dared ask the girl what she had been fighting with Professor Diederik about on the first day of school. Her makeup had been quite heavy but was lighter now, showing what a pretty girl she was. Her startling green eyes had been masked by the heavy eyeliner and mascara before. Was she wearing contacts?

  The girl looked up from her phone. “You keep looking at me. Do I have something on my face?”

  “No.” Not sure how to take the girl’s attitude, Francie opened her brown paper bag and pulled out a veggie sandwich on homemade bread.

  “Are you for real?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Francie said, trying not to be offended. She was used to being complimented on her cooking. Even Greg hadn't been able to find anything wrong with that.

  The girl pointed at the sandwich Francie had pulled from the plastic wrapping. “You’re really bringing food from home?”

  “I don’t have money for eating out.” Francie hated the flush she could feel creeping up her neck.

  “What, you spend all your money on your clothes?”

  Francie glanced down at the suit she had bought for her first day. It was only the second time she had worn it. She decided to address the girl's remark the same way she had when Rafe used to get snarky with her.

  “I like you.” Francie picked up half of the sandwich. “You remind me of when I was young and rude. What’s your name?” She took a bite of her lunch.

  The girl blinked then giggled. “All right. I deserved that.” She reached out her hand in a very formal gesture. “You can call me Rose.”

  Taking time to wipe her fingers on a napkin, Francie reached across the table and shook the girl’s hand.

  “You can call me Francie.”

  “Francie? Like fancy but with an “r” in it? That’s kind of cool. Is that short for something?”

  “Francesca. It’s a good Italian name, and my parents didn’t want me to forget my heritage.”

  “Mine's short for Rosamunde.” Rose said, pulling the plastic lid off her salad. “Your parents sound a little like my grandmother. She’s my dad’s mom and came here from Germany. It was all drama because of the Berlin Wall. I guess they had to sneak out of the country or something. You know, that whole crazy Sound of Music kind of thing, where they had to hide while people were hunting for them. I don’t personally believe it.” She stabbed a section of lettuce and daintily dipped it into what had to be a fat-free dressing.

  Francie swallowed before speaking. “That kind of thing really used to happen. I had a friend in elementary school who had to sneak out with her family. I found out about it when she came to a sleepover. We were about ten, and she woke up with a really horrible nightmare. It was scary. Her mom had to come and take her home because she was too freaked out to stay the rest of the night. She kept talking about people chasing them with guns. Is your grandmother still alive?”

  “Yeah.” Rose played with her salad. “So you don’t think she’s making it up?”

  “I don’t know anything about your grandmother. Is she honest about other things?”

  “Uh, yeah. She’s my dad’s mom. They’re all totally rigid with the truth. Now, if it was my mom’s mom . . .” Rose rolled her eyes.

  “I’ve got some relatives like that. If I believed everything my mother’s first cousin said, she should have written a book, a tell-it-all about the scores of Hollywood movie stars she was supposed to have dated.”

  Rose giggled again. “My other grandmother’s like that.” She stopped laughing, and her face became serious. “My mother is too.”

  “I’m sorry. That can be really awkward. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to laugh in my cousin’s face. What was weird was she really seemed to believe what she was telling us. I don’t know if she lives in a fantasy world or maybe has a mental disorder. She’s never hurt anybody with her make-believe stories, but it’s still kind of pathetic.”

  “Some people do it to hurt, though.” Rose looked sad, as though she spoke from experience.

  “Would you like some homemade bread? It’s good, even if I say so myself.”

  Rose considered the slice of bread Francie slid toward her.

  “Have you ever had homemade?”

  “My dad’s grandmother used to make it before she died.” She shrugged. “It was okay.”

  “You don’t have to eat the whole thing. I wish I could offer you some homemade preserves to go with it, but I gave the jar away this morning. They were so good!” Francie leaned forward, conspiratorially, and Rose did the same. “I put hot peppers in it. Just a little.”

>   The girl straightened and gave Francie a curious look. “You made it yourself? Like the bread?”

  “I told you. I’m poor. I grow most of what I eat, especially now that I’m in school.”

  “Wow. I’ve always wanted to learn how to cook.”

  “Your mother hasn’t taught you?” It was Francie’s turn to shoot Rose an inquisitive glance.

  “My mother’s more into the professional, pay-someone-else-to-do-it thing. At least for as long as I can remember.”

  “I’m doing up another batch Friday night.” Francie folded her paper bag so she could use it again. “I have to get the fruit done before it goes bad.”

  Rose’s eyes widened. “Um, are you inviting me over to watch?”

  “Hon, if you come, I’ll need you to do more than watch. If I had someone to help me, I could get it all done and not have to worry about it anymore.”

  “You live alone?”

  “I do now my son’s at college. He used to help me.”

  Rose hesitated a moment more. “I’d like to come and help you. Should I bring an apron?”

  “I’ve got plenty of those. I’ll even feed you dinner, if you don’t mind not having meat. I can’t afford it.”

  “I don’t eat meat.” Rose shuddered.

  They exchanged phone numbers, and Francie texted her the address. “I don’t get home until about five. It’s outside of town.”

  “Does everyone have their assignments? For you new club members, don’t forget this is just the initial contact with the homeowners.” Alex glanced around the small group. They fit easily in the conference room which made him frown. Until last year, his Historical Architecture Club had needed to meet in one of the small classrooms. Several of the older members had graduated last summer, but this big a drop meant he would need to shake up how he was doing things to get more students interested.