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

by Donna K. Weaver

  “This is a wonderful old house. How many bedrooms are there?”

  “Um, Alex, can you put me down?”

  “Oh, sorry. Where’s the kitchen?” She pointed the way, and Alex carried her into the large, comfy room and put her on a chair. He dashed back to the living room and grabbed a cushion from the sofa. Once he had settled it under her foot, he went to the freezer. He stared at the old-fashioned plastic ice trays. He hadn’t known they even still made them.

  “There are zippered bags in the drawer, there.” Francie waved a finger at a bank of drawers. “Second one from the top.”

  Alex twisted the ice tray, unloading the cubes into the bag. He added a little water before closing the seal. With a folded towel, he set it gently on her swelling ankle.

  “It doesn’t hurt as bad now,” Francie said after a few seconds. She looked at him. “Why are you here, Alex?”

  “I didn’t know this was yours.” Alex pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “The house was recently added to Boone’s list of historical homes. Each year, my Historical Architecture Group selects a handful of homes to catalog for the state. I volunteered to check out this one. I’m really sorry about making you fall. Do you have any painkillers I can get for you?”

  “Above the sink, up high.”

  “Where are your glasses?” She pointed again, and Alex opened the cupboard above the dishwasher. Right where he would have put them. Without thinking, he opened a couple of other doors and smiled. Her spices were in alphabetical order, just like his. Aware of the silence, Alex turned around to find her watching him.

  “Did you find what you’re looking for?” Francie seemed amused. Her red cap was askew, and strands of her long dark hair feathered out.

  “Sorry.” He retrieved the glass and medicine and handed them to her. “I’m not usually nosy. I was just admiring how orderly your cupboards are. My daughter would tell me that makes me a total geek.”

  “I don’t have time to be disorganized. I held down two full time jobs until I came to work for you, and now I have classes and homework.” She sighed. “I don’t have time for a sprained ankle either. I was going to can most of the weekend, after I fixed the roof.”

  “Don’t worry about the roof. I can take care of it for you.” When she looked about to argue with him, Alex distracted her by lifting the bag of ice and the towel to check the bruising. “How does it feel?”

  “Better.” Francie shifted the foot cautiously, wincing only when she turned it to the side. The toenails were painted bright red.

  “Did you leave the hammer on the roof? I don’t remember it following you down.”

  “I don’t honestly remember.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I hate to think what that must have looked like.”

  “You scared me to death.” Alex put a hand on her shoulder and squatted down so they were eye level. “Seriously, I thought you were going to die.”

  “Thanks to you, I didn't.” She reached across and touched his shirt. “Do you need an icepack too?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Prove it.” Francie crossed her arms, her face set with a stubborn look.

  Alex almost ignored her, but her expression reminded him of the face his mother had worn when he was a boy and pretending not to be hurt. He finally shrugged off his jacket and undid the top buttons of his shirt.

  Francie gasped, and he looked down. Yes, a definite mark. He could make out most of the outline of her boot heel on his right pec. Flexing the muscles, Alex hissed, surprised he hadn't noticed it sooner. He lifted his right arm and rubbed at the tender, swollen red mark. Hammering would probably work out some of it.

  “You do need some ice.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He buttoned his shirt and put his coat back on. “Let me shift you to the couch where you'll be more comfortable.”

  “You're hurt. I wish you wouldn't go on the roof.”

  “Will you let me take you to the hospital to have that ankle x-rayed?”

  “No.”

  Alex shrugged, wincing only a little. “Then I'll patch your roof.”

  She glared at him for a moment before throwing up her hands. “Fine. Fix it, then. But I'm not sitting on the couch while you do it. Bring me that desk chair. It has wheels.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Cook.”

  Alex hesitated for a second before doing as instructed. Helping her into the chair, he said, “You have to keep that foot up.”

  Pinching her lips, Francie grabbed her leg at the knee and put it over the chair arm. “There.”

  “That’s not high enough to keep the swelling down. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

  “So I’ll only put it there when I have to get something. When I’m at the table, I’ll rest it on the chair.”

  “Stubborn woman.”

  “Stubborn man.”

  “I’ll go find that hammer.” Alex grinned, liking her spunk.

  He went out the back door, and Francie used her good foot to scoot the chair to the window. Alex Diederik was going to fix her roof. As he scouted around the yard for the missing hammer, he kept rubbing his chest. She knew it had hurt more than he'd admitted. And heavens, his chest. Francie fanned herself absently and tried to ignore the throbbing in her ankle—and the too-attractive man wandering outside her house.

  She collected the vegetables she would need and brought them to the table. When she had everything in place and was able to lift the injured foot to the chair across from her, Francie sighed with relief. How was she going to get around campus if she couldn’t walk?

  Alex must have found the hammer because pounding began overhead. How much was that aggravating his bruise? She didn't care what he said; his chest needed ice too.

  When the casserole was ready, Francie hooked her leg over the chair's arm and picked up the dish. Staring at the too-tall oven, she sighed. She opened the oven door and slid the casserole dish inside. Francie moved her leg off the arm then used the counter to pull herself to her good foot, so she could turn on the oven. Not wanting to do all that again, she hopped to the fridge to see if there was another tray of ice.

  She was still at the freezer when she heard Alex on the back porch. At the sound of him stomping his feet on the mat outside her door, Francie's breathing quickened. Stop being a fool; he's your boss. The door burst open.

  “What do you think you're doing?” Alex was behind her, pulling her hands back from the freezer faster than she would have dreamed possible.

  “I’m getting ice.”

  “Let me do that after I wash my hands.” He brought over the desk chair and helped her back into it. “What smells so good?” He sniffed the air, the gesture reminding her of Rose.

  “Your lunch.” Francie held her wrists against her chest and found herself watching him, looking so comfortable and at home in her kitchen, as he washed his hands then filled another bag with ice cubes. When he brought it to her, she said, “That one's for your chest.”

  “I’m fine. How's your ankle?” He removed the towel and ice. “Can you move it?”

  Francie did carefully and bit back a groan when she turned it to the side.

  “That's enough.” Alex put the fresh bag of ice on her ankle then put the first one in the freezer. “You have any rubbing alcohol? If you add a little to the water it won’t freeze completely. Makes it more comfortable against the swelling.”

  “I might have some in my emergency kit, but that’s upstairs.”

  With a shrug, he came to the table, pulled back a chair, and twisted it so he could sit on it backward. “What are you working on there?”

  “I’m getting these ready to can. I don’t know what to do now, since I had to use all my big pots in the attic when the roof started to leak.”

  “I can fetch them for you.” Alex stood again. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  “You mean up?” Francie laughed at his expression and told him where to find the door. She continue
d to cut up vegetables, listening to the comforting sound of another person in the house.

  It took two trips, but Alex brought back all her pots. He put them on the counter and turned on the tap.

  “You had to haul all of these upstairs by yourself?”

  “Who else would do it?”

  “Okay. I understand that.” Alex looked over his shoulder. “Is that a picture of your son at the top of the stairs?” When she nodded, he said, “He's a good-looking kid. You must miss him. My daughter is thinking about going on a study abroad next semester. I hate to think what it would be like with her gone.”

  “Well, this is what it’s like,” Francie said, irritated at the burning in her eyes. “Rafe's at Harvard, and I haven’t seen him for six weeks. It’s the longest we’ve ever been apart and talking on the Internet just isn't the same thing.”

  “A Harvard man, huh? Good for him. That takes a lot of work.” Alex turned around and grabbed a towel to dry off the pot. “For both of you.” He looked around the kitchen. “Even more so if he’s there on scholarship.”

  Francie considered Alex for a moment, trying to take the compliment and not be offended by the assumption. It was true and stupid of her to be prideful over such a thing. She kept chopping.

  “Please tell me,” he said, standing by the stove, “that whatever is making that heavenly smell is almost done.”

  Right then the timer at Francie’s side went off. They both jumped, and he went straight to the drawer with the potholders as though he already knew where they were. She made room on the table for the plates he handed her. Like he was the host and she his guest, Alex placed the steaming casserole dish on the table between them.

  He served her first, even though she could tell he was anxious to taste it. Francie held her breath when he blew on a forkful and put it in his mouth. With closed eyes, he chewed slowly, but his expression didn’t change. Having always been delighted when people liked her cooking, her heart sank at the delay in response, and she prepared herself for the tactful but disappointed comment.

  Opening his eyes a little, he let out a deep breath. “Ambrosia,” he finally said and took another bite. Francie let out a shaky laugh, picked up her fork, and tried not to grin too broadly. When Alex had taken a few bites, he started picking through his plate as though looking for something.

  “No meat,” she said. “But I grew everything else. I even made the cheese.”

  “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Be on time for the most important job I’ve ever had.”

  Alex said something under his breath that she thought might have been a curse. “Francie, I've wanted to apologize since I said that. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now I see your situation, I feel even worse. I’ll bet you were worried I’d fire you.”

  “Well, for the first few days, yes, but you were always nice after that, so it was hard to stay really mad at you.” She put another scoop of casserole on his plate, and he picked up his fork again.

  “You were such an ice queen.” Alex chuckled. “Every time I thought I could bring it up, you’d give me that look. You scared me to death.”

  Francie gave him a look she had always used on Rafe, when he was exaggerating.

  “See.” Alex pointed his fork at her. “There it is.”

  “You’re funning me.”

  “I’m not.” Alex became thoughtful as he chewed. He finally said, “I’ll bet Sam would like this. She’s my daughter, and six months ago, she turned vegetarian.

  “I can give you the recipe. Just yesterday I shared it with Rose—she’s a cute kid I’ve kind of adopted. I can’t believe so many kids don’t know how to cook. Rafe was in the kitchen with me by the time he was five.” She didn’t mention that it had been as much to avoid his father as to learn.

  “I’m glad you’ve had some help around here.” He pushed away his empty plate and stood. “Now, what can I do to help you?”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I know that.” Alex crossed his arms, wincing once and loosening them a little. “But seriously, I don’t have anything else to do today, and I feel responsible for your ankle. Let me help you.”

  “Fine, then.”

  Alex started clearing the table. When she tried to scoot herself over to help, he held up both hands. “No offense, but you’ll be underfoot with that thing.”

  “I have to wash my hands again before I work with the food.”

  “All right. Do that while I put this in a container.”

  Francie took her time at the sink, only partly because it was awkward to reach with the desk chair turned sideways. When she finished, he handed her a towel and rolled the chair back to the table. As she watched him puttering around her kitchen, she remembered how her grandfather had done the same thing. Granny Gladys had mentioned several times that it had taken her a while to find Grampa, but he had been worth the wait.

  That evening, after they had eaten dinner, Francie finally let Alex help her onto the couch in the living room. She couldn’t believe what an efficient pair they had made. Next week it would be easy to can what was left.

  “This is the best food I’ve eaten in years.” Alex dropped beside her and propped his feet next to hers on the ottoman. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “Granny Gladys taught me. She and Grampa talked for years about turning this place into a bed and breakfast. He died three months after he retired. That was about the time my husband was first injured. I was pregnant with Rafe and sicker than a dog. When we got married right out of high school, my parents disowned me.”

  “You mean they literally disowned you?” He reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “Yes, but it wasn't about money because they weren't rich. It was about 'making my bed and lying in it,' according to my father. I was overwhelmed. We’d only been married six months, and I was already behind in rent. Our landlord was getting ready to evict us. Then Gran showed up at the apartment, telling me this place was too much for her, and she didn’t have the heart to do a B&B anymore. She didn’t want to sell the place either since her grandfather had built it.”

  “Why did she think you could handle it by yourself, especially being pregnant?” Alex still held her hand in his. Almost absently, he started running his thumb back and forth over the top of it.

  “Until Greg's second accident, he was able to work the place.”

  “When was that?” Alex asked, his voice soft.

  Francie looked up from their hands. Alex slid his head closer, and her breath caught. “We'd been married almost three years,” she managed to get out.

  “So you've been taking care of all of this for . . . ?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “You’re an amazing woman, Francie Davis,” Alex said, his voice a little husky. His eyes dropped to her mouth for a second, and he slid his head closer still.

  “Would you like some bread and jam?” she asked, before he did something he might regret.

  Her question seemed to wake up Alex, and he sat up, releasing her hand. “Sure. Tell me where it is, and I’ll get it.” Alex jumped to his feet.

  “In the pantry. The really small jars.”

  Francie used the time to get her breath back and hoped her wits would follow soon. She was sure he had been about to kiss her. Why had she stopped him?

  “It was you,” Alex shouted from the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway and held up a small jar of Cheberry Preserves, the one she and Rose had made the other night.

  “I thought you knew that.”

  Alex shook his head, returning to the couch with the little jar in hand. “I get stuff from my students all the time. Sometimes they're just being nice while other times it’s bribery.” He sat beside her again and used the edge of a spoon to pop the seal. After handing her the top, he scooped out a blob and put it in his mouth.

  Francie burst out laughing, pleased, but a little appalled too. “Didn’t your mother teach you any man
ners?”

  “Not when it comes to this stuff. I ate that whole jar in one sitting. Cheberry. What kind of name is that?” He took another bite.

  “Rafe came up with it. It was getting late in the strawberry season, the cherries were on, and so were the blackberries. He said we ought to make them into a jam. We liked it so much it became a family tradition. This summer, when we put in the garden, Rafe wanted to try jalapeños. I ended up with so many, I wasn’t sure what to do with the extras. I decided to try a little bit in the Cheberry recipe.”

  “So that’s what’s giving it the kick. I love it,” Alex mumbled, keeping the mouthful of preserves on his tongue longer.

  “What’s your story, Alex?” When he almost choked, she quickly added, “Since we’re sharing.”

  “Vicki and I were never really good together, even at the beginning.” He put the jar and spoon on the end table, leaned back on the couch, and put his feet up on the ottoman, his hand finding hers again. “Vicki always wanted more than I did.”

  “More stuff?”

  “More everything,” Alex said, lacing his fingers through hers. “More money, more status, more promotions. I tried going after the kinds of things she wanted, but I didn’t care about that stuff. My heart wasn’t in it, so nothing I did was ever enough. I will give her credit for one thing—besides Sam. If not for Vicki, I wouldn't have gone after my Masters, and I’d have been satisfied teaching high school history.”

  He fell silent, and Francie thought about all the years she had heard the same thing from Greg. If he had been a whole man, she could have left him, but she had taken vows. For better or for worse.

  No, Greg hadn't been the man she had married, but it also hadn’t been his choice. That was what she had never been able to explain to Rafe, who had not known Greg the way he had been before. All those years, even when things kept getting worse, Francie had continued to search for some sign of the talented, ambitious young man who was trapped inside the vicious, ugly shell he had become.

  “You said your ex-wife uses your name as a jab.” Francie shifted so she could look at him more easily. “How could it be a jab?”