by Jean Stone
Marion was going to get married and she was going to save Second Chances.
Jo raised her glass. “We have a photographer,” she said with a smile. “But feel free to include the butcher's nephew. The more the merrier, right?”
When she went back to the shop, the door was locked, a BACK AT TWO sign in the window. Jo quickly found her key and slipped inside. There were things to do now, a new angle to take, that Second Chances could help dreams come true, no matter what age.
Her seventy-year-old mother wanted to get married.
Later Jo would deal with the emotional response she supposed she would feel, with the hesitations and expectations of how the changes in Marion's life might or might not affect Jo's.
For now, there was a wedding to plan. A second wedding.
Tossing her purse into the desk drawer, Jo then took off the pink linen bolero she wore over the matching tank dress, a city dress, out of place in West Hope. No matter. It was time to get busy. It was not time to wonder if her mother decided to wed Ted simply to help Jo get over Brian, or simply to help Second Chances get on its pearl satin, dyed-to-match feet.
It was time to think only of work.
As she sat at her desk, Jo noticed that the red light flashed on the phone. A message awaited. With a short laugh, Jo picked up the receiver to clear whomever it was: an eager florist, no doubt, wanting a cut of the action, or Elizabeth Taylor or Liza Minelli or Madonna in search of consultants for their next ceremony.
Or maybe it was Cassie, calling to say “Hello,” because she was a lonely kid with one “pseudo” parent who worked.
To hear your messages, press one.
Jo did as she was instructed.
“Is this Second Chances?” It was a young voice, a female voice. Not Elizabeth, not Liza. “We received your e-mail about the wedding sweepstakes and we want to talk to you about being a guest on Sakes Alive!”
Jo blinked. She sat up straight.
“This is Melinda Gant,” the young voice continued. “I'm the special-assignments editor to Kevin Green.” She then left her number “in the two-one-two area code” and asked that someone return her call.
36
It was quarter past two when Lily and Sarah and Andrew sauntered into the shop. Andrew's head swam with scores of new data to convey to his fans.
“If I have sex with a man for the first time, I certainly expect flowers the next day.” (That from Lily.)
“A phone call would be good enough for me.” (Sarah.) “But it had better be a nice call. That he hadn't stopped thinking of me, or something sappy like that.”
That had surprised Andrew, because he hadn't considered that Sarah would go much for “sappy.” Then again, he reminded himself as they crossed the threshold into his gay, “Second Chance” world, that was why he was doing this. To inform the readers how real women thought, what real women wanted, not what men thought they did.
Jo sat at her desk. She looked up at the trio with what Andrew thought was an oddly smug look on her face. “Well,” she said, “have some of us forgotten we have jobs to do?”
“Right,” Sarah said and sat down, tossing her long legs over one arm of the navy chair.
“How was your lunch?” Lily asked, as she perched on the other arm of the chair where Sarah sat.
“Interesting.”
They looked at one another as if “interesting” was not a word they might have expected in describing a mother-daughter outing.
“‘Interesting'?” Andrew asked, because he thought there must be more to the story and because, as a guy, he was less patient than the women.
“My mother and Ted the Butcher want to use Elaine's wedding so we'll have a portfolio and she'll have a new life.”
For a moment no one said anything, then Lily said, “Your mother? Wants to marry the butcher?”
Jo nodded. “It seems they've been keeping company for a number of years. I don't know if she's trying to help us or trying to help them, but Marion Lyons wants ‘a second wedding.'”
Andrew resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief. With Elaine's wedding “taken,” there would be no sweepstakes, no risk of exposure, no entanglements with the media. His job was protected, his cover ensured. No one would be hurt, and the wedding would probably provide him with enough material to keep his column going for six months or a year, maybe longer if he wanted to extend his contract. Wouldn't John Benson be happy?
“There's only one tiny wrinkle,” Jo said, and Andrew felt the kind of grim, off-balance feeling one feels when someone gives you good news then adds the word “but.”
“Sakes Alive! called,” Jo continued. “They want us next Tuesday. To announce the sweepstakes.”
Andrew really wished he hadn't had Chinese food for lunch. He really wished he'd not indulged in the Hunan Pork that, on a good day, gave him indigestion for an hour or two. Sakes Alive! was Kevin Green's show. Sakes Alive! was the worst-case scenario he thought that he'd avoided. Sakes Alive! would be his downfall. And John Benson's, too.
“Oh, Jo,” Lily said, leaping from the chair and nearly taking flight. “This is wonderful!”
“I'm glad you agree,” Jo said, “because they're especially curious about you. They asked if you were the widow of the Reginald Beckwith.”
“Oh, gosh,” Lily said, “whatever will I wear?”
“We'll need to worry about a few more things than that,” Sarah said. “Such as what to say and how to position our business and how to pitch the sweepstakes.”
“And I'll get to worry about my mother,” Jo added.
“Oh,” Lily said. “What about your mother? What will we do?”
“I have no idea. But I doubt that she'd want us to miss an opportunity like this.”
“But is it so great?” Andrew stepped in, aware his words would be unwelcomed, but nonetheless spewing them out quickly because he probably only had one chance and not a very good one at that. “How many of you are really familiar with Sakes Alive!?”
“I've watched once or twice when Burch had it on,” Sarah admitted.
“I monitored parts of it a few times when I had a client appear,” Jo said.
“And I've seen the posters in the train stations,” Lily said.
Lily, Andrew thought, was such an airhead she was really quite lovable.
But this was not the time to think about anyone being lovable.
“Kevin Green is a slimeball. He makes a farce out of people and what they do for a living. He acts as if he's enthralled, but his sole purpose is ridicule, the no-holds-barred kind of ridicule.” It was then Andrew noticed that his mouth had gone dry. Nerves. Hunan Pork. He walked to the water cooler and filled a paper cone cup.
“I doubt that anyone would be a slimeball to us,” Sarah said. “Look at us. We're rather harmless, Andrew.”
“Are you kidding? My guess is he'll zero in on Lily. Then he'll eat her up. He'll translate Lily's sweetness into naivete . . . the perfect target for Kevin's kind of crap.” He supposed he was being overly harsh on Kevin, but, shit, the life he'd come to love was suddenly at stake. “And God only knows what he'll say about Reginald. No,” Andrew said, pacing the floor. “I can't allow Lily—or any of you—to be fed to that piranha.” He drank another cup of water, then tossed the paper cone in the basket.
Lily stood up. “Well, my darling Andrew, I appreciate your concern. But the truth is, it's not as if you know the man. And, if you knew me better than you do, you'd know that I can take care of myself. Piranha or not. We shall go to New York and we shall do the show and Second Chances will be a success. And what's more, I hate to pull rank, but please remember that you work for us, and I hope you'll agree to escort us to Sakes Alive!, because it's going to be your future, too.”
Andrew was leaning against the water cooler, which was perhaps why he didn't fall over. Lily wanted him to go to New York? To Sakes Alive!? To Kevin Green?
“As for me,” Lily said with her trademark flourish, “I really must get upstairs and
decide what I shall wear. Between now and Tuesday is hardly enough time to think about pulling together a new outfit with proper accessories.” She danced from the room on her own Lily-cloud, leaving all eyes on Andrew, who of course had no clue what in the hell he was going to do.
37
DO
Expect the unexpected.
Had she already made a note of that?
The day had gone from bad to good to great, Jo thought as she left the shop that night. Andrew's behavior had been peculiar, but surely he'd get over it. Jo said she was sure her mother would stay with Cassie if Mrs. Connor weren't available, so he really had no excuse not to go to New York. Maybe he hated the city and that was why he had left, but surely it was a big enough place that his ghosts wouldn't be there to haunt him in Kevin Green's studio.
And they would get the publicity they needed.
And Jo would succeed again.
And somehow her mother would remarry.
And all would be as it would be.
As she drove through town, Jo thought about Elaine. They'd been so busy these past few weeks that they hadn't taken the time to check in with her, to make sure she was okay, to let her know there was no need to feel guilty, especially now. Elaine would be glad to hear their good news.
At the next intersection, Jo took a right and headed to the subdivision where the felt flags of autumn now adorned every house, and red geraniums had given way to pots of orange and purple mums.
“Mom's asleep,” one of the girls, Kandie or Karen—Jo was forever confusing the two—told her.
“It's only six-thirty at night,” Jo replied as if the girl might be lying. “Is she sick?”
Kandie or Karen let out a laugh. “Not really. She's in the family room.”
She walked away from the door, leaving Jo to wonder if she should go in and find Elaine for herself. She tried the handle, it was not locked, so that's what she did.
The vertical blinds in the family room were closed, leaving thin stripes of the day's end of sunlight trying to make themselves known. The television was tuned in to one of those home-shopping stations, but the sound was not up. Elaine sat motionless. She was in a housedress that looked to be quite old.
“Elaine,” Jo said, moving close to the couch. “Elaine, it's Jo. Are you okay?”
The lump that sat there blinked, but did not respond.
“Elaine?”
The eyelids closed. “Go away,” Elaine said. “I want to be alone.” She wore no makeup. Her hair was flat on one side as if she'd slept on it and hadn't showered for a while. And worst of all, she smelled like gin.
Jo sat down beside her. She reached for the remote and clicked off the TV. “How long have you been sitting here? When did you last have a decent meal?”
Elaine shook her head. “Leave me alone. I'm fine.”
“No you're not,” Jo replied. “You're depressed. And you're drunk.”
Elaine half-opened her eyes, then closed them again.
“And it's stifling in here.” Jo went to the sliding glass doors, snapped the blinds, and opened the door onto the deck. She wouldn't have expected Elaine was the type to self-destruct over the decline of a relationship. Self-destruct over Martha Stewart's demise, perhaps. But not over a man.
Then again, she reminded herself, we all do strange things in the name love.
She moved back to the couch. “Get up,” she commanded. “You've felt sorry for yourself long enough.”
The eyes moved again. “What?”
“You heard me,” Jo said. “I'm going to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. And you are going to get up and wash your face and brush your teeth and comb your hair. It's time to pull yourself together.” It was easy to recognize depression in others once you'd been through it yourself.
“Is this how you've spent your days since you broke up with Martin?” Jo asked once Elaine had cleaned up and changed her clothes. Jo had made Elaine a sandwich and they sat on the patio, Jo watching her friend reluctantly eat, her thoughts churning with what she and the others could do. There must be something, she thought, some way to help.
Elaine shrugged. “Martin cried when I told him I couldn't marry him. Then he left my house without saying a word. He never asked me why, which I suppose was just as well. It's so hard to explain.”
Jo felt she should offer some sound advice on men, but she, of course, knew none. She shifted awkwardly on the white plastic chair.
“I hurt Martin terribly; now I've disappointed my friends, too,” Elaine continued. “After all you've done for me.”
Jo leaned forward. “No you haven't, Lainey.” She waited until Elaine seemed to have calmed down. Then she told her about the sweepstakes and the guest spot on Sakes Alive! She told her Second Chances would have national exposure more quickly than any of them could have hoped.
Elaine watched. Elaine listened.
Then Jo told her about Marion and Ted.
“So because of you, a long-awaited marriage is going to happen, and maybe our business will take off after all. Even though we're all distressed for you, your decision hasn't exactly turned out to be a disappointment for us. A silver lining in your cloud, I suppose.”
Elaine considered Jo's words a moment, then said, “Especially for your mother.” Then she added a slow half-smile. “Ted the Butcher? Well, of course, everyone suspected that for years.”
Jo did not say everyone except her. She patted Elaine's hand. “You see, there's still hope of true love for the rest of us.”
“Lily has never had a problem finding true love.”
“Looks like she's found it again. She and Frank Forbes seem to spend a lot of time together. As for me, I think I'll have my hands full running the business.”
And then Jo knew how they could help Elaine.
“Come work with us, Lainey,” she said quickly. “With all the business that will be coming our way, we sure could use your help.”
Elaine chewed quietly, swallowed, then looked out to the backyard. “Sorry,” she said. “I'm afraid I'm like Lily. No visible experience.”
“Of course you've had experience. You've volunteered at the library for how many years?”
“And I taught second grade for two years, and was a waitress in my father's restaurant when I was a kid. None of which qualify me to plan a wedding.”
“Well, we're going to need more help. Besides, you're the one who got us into this! Please, be part of our adventure. It will be just like the old days.” Her plea sounded a little bit short of emotional blackmail, but if it would keep Elaine away from getting sucked into a vortex of self-pity, what was a little blackmail among the best of friends?
38
Cassie was upstairs doing her homework. (“Sixth grade is awful, Dad! You wouldn't believe what I have to do before tomorrow!”)
Andrew cleaned up the kitchen, bemused at the stereotypical thought that if he truly were gay, he perhaps would have done a much more thorough job.
He hung up his dishtowel and retreated to the hammock, aware that the number of evenings were slipping away when he'd be able to do this before the first frost. Or before his scheme unraveled and he was run out of town.
He'd put in an emergency call to John Benson: something had gone wrong. Somehow their protection had slipped through the media cracks and Kevin Green had learned about Second Chances.
Someone, somewhere, had not risen to John Benson's payola. Someone, somewhere, had betrayed the betrayer.
Andrew's cell phone lay lifeless on his stomach, awaiting his boss's thoughts about his fate.
Maybe he should quit his job at Second Chances first. Maybe he should admit in his column that getting too close to too many women at the same time had been a mistake; perhaps he should concentrate on fleshing women out, one female at a time. Which meant the local dating service (ugh!) or, God forbid, the Internet. He supposed he could always look around the supermarket, the laundromat, the bookstore—places he knew women had been told were good haunts in which t
o meet men, though men preferred the darkness of bars and the coolness of beer and its subsequent self-confidence that was then able to spring so eloquently from their lips.
Then again, if Andrew were so inclined to do those things or go to those places, he'd have done them long before this, long after Patty, long before he was actually trying to make a living by pretending to know what real women wanted.
He'd sent in his last column, which had been filled with the cocksureness of a man, convinced that he and John Benson had outwitted Jo Lyons, convinced that his ruse would go undetected.
Which only proved how little about life Andrew Kennedy knew.
The cell phone rang. Andrew jumped; he nearly fell off the rocking hammock.
“John,” he said quickly into the phone. “Man, have we got a problem.”
There was a pause for a second, then a voice lightly said, “Andrew? It's Jo. What kind of problem can you possibly have?”
Andrew listened as long as he could stand it to Jo's monologue about Elaine and how Elaine would be at the shop in the morning and that he should put her to work doing something, anything. As for Jo, she'd be late—she'd stop by her mother's and try to find a diplomatic way to break the news that the wedding would be given to someone else, someone who could generate more business for Second Chances, national exposure on a grand, television-exposure scale. They'd find a way to make it up to Marion, wouldn't they?
While Andrew tried to think of a plausible answer, Jo suddenly shrieked. “Television! Maybe we can get Sakes Alive! to televise the wedding! Oh, Andrew, this is so exciting!”
He could have reminded her that that had been done before, but he supposed Jo would argue that it hadn't been done for second weddings.
With a sigh, he looked at his watch again, certain John must be trying to get through, unsure of how to activate call-waiting on this damn phone since he'd rarely needed it, because whoever called a lowly college professor stuck somewhere in the mountains?
“I've got to run now,” he said, finally wedging a few words between Jo's litany of big dreams. “Cassie's shouting for me.” He quickly disconnected the call, grateful he had a daughter whom he could use as an excuse. She'd often come in handy for faculty parties, boring dates, and when he was simply tired but too manly to admit it.