Reprieve (Love's Second Chance Book 1)

by Scott,Scarlett

  “That color is a bit loud, isn’t it?” He was annoyed she looked so cheerful.

  Genevieve frowned at him. “It’s called pink. Haven’t you ever seen it before?”

  Trevor snorted. “I guess I deserved that. Where’s the mysterious package?”

  She bent down and retrieved a long, shallow cardboard box stamped with an array of post office seals and barcodes. His curiosity piqued, Trevor reached for it. His mouth went dry when he read the name of the sender.

  Sophie Olsen.

  “Thanks, Gen,” he mumbled, turning away in a daze and heading back to the loft. Whatever it was, he wanted to open it alone.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what it is?” A disappointed-sounding Genevieve called after him.

  Trevor didn’t bother to reply. He was too caught up in his thoughts.

  In a matter of seconds, he was safely ensconced in his office, sitting in his chair with the box laid out on the desk before him. Part of him wanted to tear it open, just to touch something she had touched. Christ, he was pathetic. But another part of him, a niggling little voice inside his head, told him to return it to her unopened. To reject whatever she had sent him the same way she had rejected him.

  Trevor sighed. He was probably being an ass, he told himself. The box looked like it contained one of her paintings, although why she would entrust one of her works to the very fallible mail system was beyond him. Marcus made runs to her house once a week to pick up the next precious load of her terrifically popular works, so she would hardly need to mail one, particularly to Trevor.

  In the intervening months since the rather abrupt end to their relationship, Sophie had become unbelievably prolific in creating her paintings, much to the delight of the Gallery’s ravenous clientele. Her paintings were in high demand, outshining every other artist currently being featured at the Gallery. Word of mouth was truly a boon in the prestigious circle of art collectors and it had certainly paid off for Sophie. Everyone who was anyone in the art world wanted a Sophie Olsen adorning his or her respective walls.

  A rueful smile curved his mouth. He was inordinately proud of Sophie’s success even though he had no right to feel that way. Even so, he kept his distance from the section of the Gallery devoted to displaying her works. Looking at the magnificence of them was too painful, a vivid reminder of why he had fallen for her.

  There was emotion in her work, no matter what the subject, a deep and vibrant sense of a true peek into her soul. To look at one of her paintings was to become a part of it, to be swept inside the brilliant color and scenery. It was an intimate act, one that left him feeling drained and bereft. One he just couldn’t handle.

  But dwelling on all these emotions was hardly doing him any good. The package was still silently awaiting him on the desk, mocking him. Sophie was still in Pennsylvania, still in love with her dead husband and still lost to him.

  He pulled open his desk drawer and retrieved his scissors, using them to cut the packing tape Sophie had vigorously employed. Freed of the tape, the edges of the box opened to reveal the bottom length of a canvas. With shaking hands, though he wasn’t quite certain why, he pulled the canvas free of the box with the greatest of care. What he saw painted there on the canvas’ surface with bold strokes and even bolder colors almost made him drop it from numb fingers.

  It was him.

  Sophie had painted him, standing on a sand dune, wearing a white shirt that looked rumpled, tucked into black trousers. Wind ruffled his hair and a slight smile quirked his lips. He looked into the viewer’s eyes with a frank, glittering gaze. Trevor stared down at himself, unable to believe her careful attention to detail, unable to believe the way she had portrayed him. He looked like Lord Byron, for God’s sake, all brooding masculinity and not at all like his true self. The painting was wistful, almost as though created from memory. But Trevor knew that was impossible since he had never stood on a sand dune and gazed down at Sophie and he sure as hell had never looked like a tragic poet.

  Why had she painted him, of all subjects, and why send it to him now, of all times? Did she need to turn the knife she had stabbed into his gut? Belatedly, he noticed a small slip of paper had fallen from the box. He picked it up.

  I promised you a painting.

  He replayed the day he had smuggled that promise from her over the phone. Trevor had nearly forgotten about her long-ago promise entirely. Strange she had not. Did he plague her thoughts in the same constant, all-consuming way she appeared in his?

  He told himself it didn’t matter. Even if she thought of him, of their night together, her heart still belonged to another man. Trevor had merely been the lifeline she’d needed. He had come along at a convenient time in her life and she had used him to assuage the loneliness eating at her soul. There was no place for him in her heart and he would do his best to ensure there was no longer a place for her in his.

  Abruptly, Marcus strolled through Trevor’s closed door without bothering to knock.

  “Don’t forget that we’ve got a meeting with Adele Pierson-Hill at ten this morning.” Marcus brushed a speck of lint from his immaculate white shirtsleeve.

  “Right,” Trevor said distractedly, his mind still in a muddle from the unexpected painting.

  He flicked his gaze to Marcus, then to the painting, then back to Marcus, who was now toying with one of his cuff links.

  “Jennifer bought these damn things for me for my birthday last year,” Marcus muttered. “Never liked the little bastards.” He stopped fiddling and looked at Trevor at last. He frowned. “Or maybe it was Christine and she got it for me for Christmas.”

  “I’d love to know who got you the cuff links, but I’m a little busy at the moment,” Trevor pointed out.

  Marcus cocked his head to one side and considered Trevor. “You might want to comb your hair, by the way, Trev. You look like a goddamn rooster.”

  Trevor raked a hand through his hair. “Is it ten yet, Marcus?”

  “Almost.”

  Trevor forced a smile. “Why don’t you come back at ten?”

  “I see you finally deigned to open Sophie’s painting,” Marcus said, completely ignoring Trevor’s not-so-subtle dismissal. “What do you think of it?”

  “How the hell did you know it was from Sophie?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I do, damn it. How did you know?”

  Marcus shrugged. “It’s been sitting at Genevieve’s desk for two days. I had plenty of time to see the return address.” He made his way around the side of Trevor’s desk to peer down at the canvas, letting out a low whistle as he did so. “It’s you.”

  Marcus sounded as surprised by the subject matter as Trevor was.

  “It’s a version of me, at least,” Trevor agreed, still thinking that Sophie’s painting somehow vastly flattered him, making him seem far more appealing than he in truth was.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Marcus asked curiously.

  “I don’t know.” He tossed out the first idea that came to mind. “Sell it.”

  “You’re being childish,” Marcus offered agreeably.

  “You’re being a nuisance,” Trevor shot back, annoyed his friend persisted in taking Sophie’s side. “Whatever happened to loyalty, damn it?”

  “I’m being your friend. Somebody has to give you a push in the right direction.” He glanced at his watch. “And now, I believe the lovely Ms. Pierson-Hill awaits us downstairs.”

  “I think calling her lovely is taking it too far.” Trevor decided to let the comment about giving him a push slide for the moment. The needs of clients always came before his and Adele Pierson-Hill was the best of clients with a seemingly limitless checkbook. “But I’d still hate to keep her waiting.”

  “Ditto,” Marcus concurred. “Let’s go.”

  “Are you planning on eating your toast?”

  Claire, looking more pale than usual this morning, blinked at Sophie’s question. “What did you say?”

  Sophie’s s
tomach rumbled loudly before she could repeat her question. She pressed a quieting hand to her abdomen and eyed the plate of her sister’s breakfast that had gone largely untouched.

  “Your toast,” she said again. “Are you going to eat your toast?”

  Claire frowned and pushed her plate toward Sophie’s end of the kitchen table. “Eat it. I’m not feeling up to a big breakfast after all.”

  Sophie eagerly took in Claire’s plate. It was laden with an omelet that Sophie had gotten up extra early to make at Claire’s request this Monday morning and freshly made toast. As good as the omelet, replete with fresh herbs from Sophie’s garden, had been, Sophie had eyes only for the toast. It was not too dark and not too light, but just perfect with a good crunch and slathered in warm whipped butter. She couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into it. Mouth watering, Sophie snatched up the toast and devoured it, nearly moaning aloud with pleasure as it met her taste buds. God, she could eat a whole loaf of toasted bread.

  She paused in mid-chew, noticing Claire was eying her with something akin to disgust. “What?” she asked around a mouthful of toast.

  Claire shook her head. “I haven’t seen you eat like that since…never mind. Anyway, looking at you eating is making my stomach churn.”

  Sophie swallowed her toast and frowned, realizing Claire looked far too pale suddenly. Claire had moved into Sophie’s house three months ago when Sophie had turned up on their parents’ doorstep to find her sister already inside, suitcase in hand. Although deeply shocked by Claire’s emotional announcement that she and Garrett were separated, Sophie had instantly offered her the guest bedroom. The arrangements themselves were perfect. They both found themselves in a lonely place in their lives and having one another for support was a tremendous help. Over the course of three months, they had bonded anew, spending countless nights talking until dawn about everything from Garrett to Trevor, to their childhood, to books.

  But lately, Claire had not quite been feeling up to snuff. Her appetite had dwindled and Sophie had heard her getting sick just the previous morning.

  Sophie finished her toast and polished it off with orange juice. “Maybe you have the flu, Claire.”

  Claire’s expression became dazed, her eyes glazing over and taking on a faraway look. “The flu. Yes, you’re probably right, Soph.”

  Sophie patted her sister’s hand. “Maybe you should call off work today if you’re not feeling well.”

  Claire abruptly pulled her hand away and pressed it to her mouth. She jumped from her chair and ran to the bathroom. Moments later, the sound of vomiting filled the quiet. Sophie couldn’t quite stifle her grimace. By the time she reached the bathroom, Claire was washing her face. Sympathy mingling with worry within her, she handed her sister a towel.

  “Was it my omelet?” Sophie asked, striving for lightness to mask the deep concern brewing inside her.

  Claire reached for the towel and patted her face, casting Sophie a tremulous smile. “No, Soph, you know you make the world’s best omelets. I’m sorry I couldn’t eat mine. It sounded so good but when I saw it on my plate, I just felt nausea clawing at me and I couldn’t manage to eat it.”

  Sophie’s worry only increased. “I think you should see a doctor. You’ve been sick for weeks now.”

  Her sister’s luminous eyes met hers, stricken. “I have been to see a doctor.”

  Sophie’s heart froze. Dear God, what was wrong with Claire? She couldn’t bear to lose her sister, not now, not when her life was slowly getting back on track. She gripped Claire’s hands, noting they were cool and clammy to the touch.

  “What is it?” Her heart had kicked into overdrive, fear ricocheting through her.

  “It’s not what you think.” Claire faltered, clearly having difficulties finding the words. “I’m pregnant.”

  Sophie’s mouth dropped open even as relief washed over her. Thank God Claire was fine. But pregnant? Claire? She had never conveyed the urge to be a mother to Sophie. In fact, Claire had shared that she’d been the one to put children on the back burner, despite Garrett’s protestations to the contrary. With her career on the rise, Claire had explained to Sophie she was not quite prepared for that step. As things stood between Claire and Garrett now, Sophie was certain the pregnancy could not have been planned.

  A new brand of worry bubbled up inside her. “What will this mean for you and Garrett?”

  Her sister released a bitter laugh. “I have no idea.”

  Suddenly, the long, intimate conversations Sophie had shared with Claire in the past three months replayed themselves in her mind. Claire had been very explicit in revealing she and Garrett had not been sharing a bed for quite some time.

  Sophie had been stunned to realize the extent of the breakdown of her sister’s marriage. Stunned to know she’d been so close to the situation without even sensing the strife Claire was experiencing. Stunned to know a marriage she’d once considered perfect was in truth anything but.

  Confusion reigned in Sophie’s mind. “I thought you told me you and Garrett haven’t been together in months.”

  “We haven’t.”

  Sophie’s mind refused to assimilate this bit of information. “Then how…” Her words trailed off at the expression on Claire’s face.

  Claire had had an affair.

  Tears welled up in her sister’s eyes and she sniffed, turning to glance at the expensive watch on her dainty wrist. “It’s seven thirty. If I don’t leave now, I’ll never make it to work on time.”

  “Oh no. There’s no way I’m letting you go to work like this.” Sophie tugged her into the living room, pressing her onto the sofa with two well-placed hands on her shoulders. “Sit right here. I’ll call you in sick. You do have sick days, yes?” At Claire’s nod, Sophie went to the phone. “What’s the number?”

  Sophie placed the call and was back at her sister’s side in record speed. Claire remained a ghostly shade of white, sitting with a statue’s eerie stillness. Snatching up a pillow and throw, Sophie plied Claire with them.

  “Lie down,” she instructed, at her best when she was needed by someone. “Can I get you a drink? Maybe a glass of water and some crackers to nibble on?”

  Claire allowed herself to lie down and be covered with the throw but balked at being waited on by Sophie. She held up a hand. “You’re not my maid, Soph. God knows you’ve done enough for me already, letting me move in with you and then cooking a breakfast for me that I couldn’t even eat. If I need a drink, I’ll get one. Besides, I’m pregnant, not fatally ill.”

  Sophie smiled. “Stubborn. I’m your sister and it’s my duty to take care of you.”

  “Like I took care of you when you lost Peter and Elizabeth?” Claire’s question was laced with derision aimed at herself.

  “Hey.” Sophie sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa so she and Claire were at eye level. “You were there for me. It’s not your fault I closed myself off to virtually everyone and everything. If I’ve learned anything at all from what I’ve been through, it’s that healing takes a great deal of time and an open mind, two things I didn’t have at the beginning. You did everything you could for me and we both know it.”

  “I still wish you would have come to me,” Claire said meaningfully.

  Sophie had finally confessed to Claire that her accident several months ago had not been an accident at all, but rather a deliberate attempt to take her own life. Claire had been floored by the revelation and was clearly carrying about misplaced guilt as a result of Sophie’s confidence.

  “It was a split-second thing,” Sophie said. “I barely even knew what I was doing. I only knew I was miserable. But that was my fault, not yours. I allowed myself to wallow in grief instead of basking in the good memories I had. Don’t ever blame yourself for mistakes I made.”

  “You’ve changed,” Claire observed. “For so long you were disconsolate, but now you’re finally coming to terms with everything. I admire you, Soph.”

  Her sister was right. She had
changed, she reflected, and drastically too. The woman she had become would not recognize the woman she had once been. She’d grown stronger, finding a hidden reserve of fortitude she hadn’t realized she possessed. She’d finally started the lengthy process of letting go and saying her goodbyes to Peter and Elizabeth. For the first time in a long time, tomorrow was something she looked forward to rather than something she dreaded. Thanks to Trevor.

  Trevor.

  A lump formed in her throat just to think of him but now wasn’t the time to allow emotion to swamp her, not when Claire had left so much unanswered and obviously needed some answers of her own. She had very neatly deflected the conversation from herself.

  “Forget about me,” Sophie advised. “Let’s get back to you.”

  Claire closed her eyes and groaned. “I see the question in your eyes. You want to know how all this happened. How I’m separated from my husband and carrying another man’s child, for starters.” Her eyes popped open. “God, it sounds sordid, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” Sophie said firmly. “It sounds complicated.”

  “It is,” Claire concurred, sighing. Her hand strayed to her stomach in the instinctive way expectant mothers often clutched the gentle swell of their tummies. “It all started three months ago. Well, more than that, really, to be fair. Things between Garrett and me had been bad for a long time, like I said. So one weekend I finally decided to do something about it. I had it all planned. I bought some lingerie, took extra time getting ready. I wanted everything to be perfect. Garrett was out to dinner with John, or so I thought. God, I was such an idiot.”

  “Oh no,” Sophie softly intoned. She had a sinking feeling she knew where Claire’s story was headed.

  “Oh yes,” Claire confirmed. “I was waiting for him when he came home. It was so ridiculous. I’d planned on seducing him, but it turned out he’d already been seduced. By another woman. I was devastated. Then, I got a call from Logan Monroe about the meeting we had scheduled with the Pierpont Hotel people. It seemed like a good way to get away from Garrett, away from everything. So, the next day I left with Logan for New York. You remember that trip I told you about? Well, that’s when it happened.”