Maybe This Time (A Second Chance Romance)

by Susan B. James

  “I’m very happy for you, really.”

  “Can you get off for lunch? There’s a lovely deli near you.”

  “No. Michael went home sick. I’m on my own.”

  “You poor dear. I’ll come right over.”

  “It’s all right. I—”

  The phone clicked off.

  The front door bell jingled. And jingled. And jingled. Jen put the phone down. Shoulders back. Head up. Look professional. Smile!

  Another jingle. It was an onslaught.

  She answered questions, pointed out prices, repeated she had no authority to bargain.

  Another jingle. A beautiful woman with Mexican Huaraches on her feet, wearing a dress from the height of the Hippy era. A flowing, ankle-length, wheat-colored cotton dress trimmed in cream crochet. A peacock feather-trimmed headband kept her long, silver hair in check. She stopped in the doorway appraising the activity. “Jennifer?”

  “Here.” Jen let her vision of a round, cozy, senior go without regret. This woman knew her vintage.

  “Beatriz Lopez. You can call me Bea. What do you need help with the most?”

  Jen quailed at the line forming at the counter. “The cash register, please. I can’t figure out how to open it.”

  Beatriz stared at her as if she were an exotic species of bug. “You’ve never worked a cash register? Then what are you doing here?”

  A whining voice pierced their conversation. “Can anyone ring me up?”

  Beatriz slid behind the counter, shaking her head at the pile of checks next to the register. “Unbelievable.”

  Jen slunk over to the dressing room area, picking up discarded items. She rescued a blue satin negligee from its crumple on the padded, jade green bench in the dressing room. People were so careless. Had she done that to sales clerks? Probably. She’d been more about herself than anyone else in her twenties. Was it the actress in her, or did all sweet young things have a tendency to treat other people as background players in their life?

  “Lighten up,” she scolded herself. “You weren’t so bad. You didn’t kick puppies or under-tip waiters.” And she hadn’t treated her friends as background. But the sales clerks, the maids in the hotels? The passersby on the street? She wished she’d smiled at them more. Seen them as people with lives as important as her own.

  “Jennifer,” Beatriz called. “Can you wrap these, please?”

  She could wrap a package. Beatriz would see she was good at something.

  The flood of customers slowed to a trickle.

  Beatriz inspected the denuded racks. “Business is good. Any stock you can bring out?”

  “Yes.” Jen wheeled out the racks of clothing she’d unpacked yesterday. “It’s not priced yet. I have no idea how to do that.”

  Beatriz shook her head. “You don’t know how to work a cash register and you don’t know how to price the merchandise. Why exactly were you hired?”

  Jen quelled her rising temper. She pointed to the mannequin. “That’s an Anne Fogarty.”

  She indicated the label she’d put on the short, pink, plaid skirt. “Kenzo Takada. Around 1973.” Then pointed to the Biba dresses. “Popular in London in the late sixties. The bra is Jean Paul Gautier from 1983. He was Madonna’s go-to designer. The jelly bracelet came into fashion in the 1980s. Maripol designed it. The jacket is Emmanuel Ungaro. First showing with his own house was in Paris, 1965.”

  “Well, you do know the merchandise,” Beatriz conceded.

  “Yes. What I don’t know is what it should be worth now. A lady came in and wanted to give me twenty dollars for the Anne Fogarty. I said no, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “You did good, Jennifer. Let me get these priced and I’ll show you how to work the register.”

  “Not necessary. I won’t be here past tomorrow.” Surely Lisa would be well by then.

  Beatriz frowned. “I repeat. What are you doing here?

  “Serendipity?” Jen offered. “When I walked in, Michael looked like a puppy cornered by a dog catcher convention. I offered to help because I felt sorry for him. I never thought I’d be stuck trying to run it on my own.”

  The door to the storeroom swung open. Sylvie entered holding a Sherpa coat from the other rack Jen had unpacked. “I need this. How much?”

  Jen blinked. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  “The driver dropped me at the parking lot. I wanted my résumé case out of the car. You left the back door open so I came in that way.”

  Beatriz regarded Jen accusingly. “You left the back open? You’re a menace.”

  She’d never thought about locking the door.

  Sylvie fired up. “You ought to be glad she was here. The poor boy was trying to work this shop all by himself. What kind of a mother are you, leaving your son without proper help?”

  Beatriz’s frown relaxed infinitesimally. “I’m not his mother. I used to own this shop with her. You’re Sylvie Taylor, aren’t you?”

  Sylvie nodded regally. “Yes. And I won’t have you abusing Jen. It was very kind of her to step in.”

  The doorbell jingled again. Sylvie shuddered. “Sleigh bells are all very well in their place, but if I heard them every few minutes, I would run mad.”

  Jen intercepted a little boy in a superman cape heading for the Christmas tree. “The toys are over here. Do you like picture books?”

  The boy ignored her. “Mine!” He reached high for an ornament of the blue genie from Aladdin. The tree tilted.

  Sylvie dropped the coat and sprang to help Jen prop it up.

  Jen winced at the crashing tinkle of spun glass balls. Together they managed to save the tree from falling.

  The child’s mother paid no attention. She bent to pick up the coat from the floor. “This is lovely. How much?”

  Beatriz, hands on hips, surveyed the splintered ornaments. “Perhaps you missed the sign Unattended children will be sold? You’ve just bought eighty dollars’ worth of antique glass shards. The coat will be an additional seventy-five. Shall I wrap those for you?”

  Jen could have hugged her.

  The woman’s jaw dropped. “I’m not paying for those. It’s your fault for leaving them where a child could get them. She flung the coat aside. “Come, Henry. Mama doesn’t like this store. The owner is rude.” She dragged the wailing boy toward the door.

  Jen stepped in front of her. “He’s holding an ornament. Give it back, or pay for it. Your choice.”

  “Henry. Give it to me.”

  “Mine,” the boy shouted.

  The mother looked at her son, apparently estimating the chances of getting it away from him without a full-scale tantrum. “How much?”

  “Fifteen dollars,” Jen guessed. “It’s one of a kind.”

  “Outrageous.” The mother reached into her wallet and tossed a wad of money on the floor at Jen’s feet. “Keep the change.” She banged the door behind her.

  “And now you know why I decided to retire,” Beatriz said. “Where’s the dustpan?”

  “I’ll get it.” Jen picked up the money and handed it to Beatriz.

  Sylvie shook out the coat. “I would have pulled her hair out by its black roots before I let her have it. What a terrible woman. Should you call the police?”

  Beatriz shook her head. “She threw you nine dollars, Jennifer.”

  Jen felt like an idiot. “I should have counted it.” She swept the shards into the dustpan.

  Beatriz smiled at Sylvie. “The coat isn’t priced yet. I’ll give it to you for thirty dollars. I’m sorry I didn’t get to watch a hair pulling, though. I love cat fights.”

  The bells jingled again. Two women. Not a child in sight. Beatriz gave Jen a gentle push. “Go have lunch with your friend. Come back in an hour.”

  “No.” She didn
’t want to take a chance on being recognized by some old actor friend. They were too near the studios. Jen turned to Sylvie. “Let’s order in. If there’s another rush, I’ll be available.”

  “Fine, I brought my lines for the Kizzles audition. You can cue me. It’s so much easier to learn copy when someone reads with you.”

  Sylvie ordered them a pizza. They ate it sitting shoulder to shoulder on the office sofa, Sylvie reciting Kizzles copy between slices.

  “I’ve got it now. Thanks. As a reward, I’ll give you the last two slices.”

  Jen shook her head. “Let’s give it to Beatriz. I couldn’t eat any more.”

  “Well, I could, but I want to look skinny for the audition tomorrow.” Sylvie morosely surveyed the last two slices. “The things I do for my art. So, how long are you going to be here working for Dragon Lady?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll stay through Christmas at least. I was buzzed when I left last night, but I remember thinking Jeremy and Lance hadn’t finished the script.”

  “If you’re asking whether they’ve solved the problem of how to put us back into time, the answer is, they haven’t.”

  “I still don’t understand why you can’t just go on from here? I mean, you’re alive here and now.” She poked Jen. “And Lance is alive here and now, and you’re obviously getting it on. Why can’t you stay here and live happily ever after?”

  Jen’s heart loved the idea. “Jeremy says we have to go back and save our then-time-selves. If we don’t . . .” Jen stared at her hands, wondering what Jeremy thought might happen. That she and Lance would become ghosts? Wink out of existence? “I don’t know what will happen if we don’t go back.”

  “Well, I think Jeremy ought to give you a chance to find out. You could dye your hair and become a new person. It would be like a witness protection program. We do it all the time in the series. They do it in real life, too.”

  Jen rose and held out a hand to Sylvie. “Time for me to go back to work. I think you write much better scripts than Jeremy.”

  Sylvie rose and pulled Jen into a hug. “I’m off to my running club meeting. Wish me luck with my widower.”

  “I do,” Jen said, blinking back tears. “I wish you everything good in the world. You deserve it.”

  “I deserve the Kizzles gig too. Keep sending good thoughts my way.” Sylvie picked up her purse and the Sherpa coat. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  All afternoon Jen kept her mind in the present, enjoying assisting the flow of customers and Bea’s sotto voce comments on some of the more eccentric ones. After Beatriz put up the closed sign, they concentrated on unpacking and bringing in the last of the new shipment.

  Beatriz poked Jen. “I think I’ll take the closed sign off the door. Look outside. I’d like to find him under my Christmas tree.”

  Jen looked up. Lance tapped at the window. The streetlight haloed his face, making him look like a foxy angel. “Sorry. He’s taken.” She unlocked the door. A chill wind blew in with him. “Hello, sailor. Looking for some action?” She loved the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

  “With you? Always.” His kiss made her forget they had an audience. She clasped her hands around the back of his head, angling for more.”

  Beatriz applauded.

  Jen broke away. “Beatriz, this is my husband, Lance Davies.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Why are the hot ones always taken?”

  “Way of the world,” Jen said. But this time she was one of the lucky owners.

  Lance shook Beatriz’s hand. “Glad you made it home. I’m going to have to steal my bride back. We’re going on a trip.”

  Jen’s heart pounded in her ears. “You found the answer then?”

  “You’re leaving town?” Beatriz’s voice rose a notch. “Could you possibly manage another day?”

  Lance shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid not.”

  Jen hugged Beatriz. “I’m sorry. Is there anyone else you can call?”

  “My niece Ally’s helped out before, but keeping her attention on the job is like trying to bridle a butterfly. You, at least, know the eras. No. If Lisa isn’t back tomorrow, I’ll call Sher. Tell her she’s got to come back.” She produced a card from the pocket of her dress. “Come see me when you get back. I’ll give you a free reading.”

  Jen read the card. Beatriz Lopez. Psychic. Past Life charts. “You’re a psychic?”

  “Think it’s all woo-woo, do you?” Bea took Jens’s hand. Closed her eyes. One breath and her eyes flew open. “Something’s off about your chi –your energy. Where did you come from?”

  Jen snatched her hand away. She couldn’t possibly know.

  Beatriz took Lance’s hand. “Your energy’s off too. There’s something . . .” Beatriz’s eyes rolled back. Her voice sounded distant. “You have a long journey to make. You’d better hurry. Time’s a wasting.”

  Lance removed Beatriz’s hand from his.

  Beatriz blinked. Her eyes refocused. “That felt very odd. Not like my spirit guide at all. Did I say anything?”

  Lance put his arm around Jen. “You said we’d better hurry. And I think you’re right. Goodbye. If we come back, we’ll look you up. Nice to meet you.”

  Jen shivered in the chill wind. “She sounded as if she knew something about us. I never believed in psychics.”

  “Why not? If our bodies can travel through time, why not other things? Maybe psychics are mind travelers.”

  The blast of hot air from the car’s heater warmed her outside. Her blood felt like cold sludge. “Where are we going? How soon?”

  Lance’s hand covered hers. “Not tonight. Tomorrow I think.”

  “You found out where you were when you—”

  “Yes.”

  She tried to close off the terror-filled pictures swirling through her mind. She cradled his hand against her cheek. “I don’t want to know.” But she had to.

  “I wasn’t on any of the planes, Jen. Three of them were bound for Los Angeles. The fourth for San Francisco. I had a reservation on a flight to Heathrow from JFK in New York.” He cleared his throat. “It seems I took a late-night train to New York.”

  Jen couldn’t process it. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jen prowled through the scenarios in her mind until she found one she could live with. “Maybe you didn’t marry Ariole. Maybe we were still lovers and you were coming to see me?”

  “I like it,” Lance decided. “But I also must have had a meeting scheduled.”

  “You found that online?”

  “Yes. My program followed the money. I had a reservation at the Marriot in the World Trade Center Complex.”

  You were there?” Jen’s brain shut off. Panic caged her. “Why in hell would you have gone to a meeting there? You hate heights as much as I do. You—”

  Lance pressed a finger to her lips. “Ssshhh. I don’t know.”

  She bit his finger.

  “Ouch! What was that for?”

  “Don’t you try and shut me up. I’ll yell if I want to. You had no business being anywhere near . . .” An image of the tower disintegrating stopped her breath. Her throat closed on a scream.

  “Jeremy took me to meet a man named Aaron Harris this morning. He invented the Nebula Theory. It’s what put Jeremy on the right track with his time program.”

  Lance’s voice was low and soothing, softening the panic in her throat. Jen fastened on each word as if they were the only things tying her to the here and now.

  “Odd chap. Rather felt like I was meeting Yoda from Star Wars. No physical resemblance, of course.”

  Jen hiccoughed, caught between panic and laughter.

  “He thinks if we can be inserted into the proper time differential, we
would merge with our then-selves. I’m hoping he’s wrong. I want my memories just the way they are, thank you. Jeremy thinks something else might happen.”

  “What?”

  Lance turned onto the 134 Freeway. “I tuned out,” he said sheepishly. “How do you feel about seafood?”

  “Where’s Jeremy? Isn’t he coming?”

  “No. He left this afternoon.”

  “Left? For where?”

  “Back to 2001. It appears in order for us to transport to New York, we’re going to need a portal. He was going to fly to New York and buy one.”

  Jen ignored the time travel part. Only one word stuck in her mind. “He’s going to Fly?”

  Lance cleared his throat. “Ignoring the time jump, how did you think we were going to get from California to New York?”

  “Not on a plane.”

  “That’s what Jeremy thought you would say. I’m not fond of the idea myself. If he establishes a gate in New York, then we don’t have to.”

  “Oh.” Jen took Lance's hand. “Sorry about the bite.”

  Lance squeezed her fingers. “You should be. So, seafood? I thought you might like to eat near the water. Hear the sound of waves.”

  “In the dark? In the winter?”

  “On a ship. Named the Queen Mary.”

  Jen snuggled into the seat. The heat was just right now. “You do think of the loveliest things.”

  Chapter 32

  In Long Beach Harbor, the Queen Mary’s three, golden-lighted smoke stacks, and a single strand of light bulbs, draped stem to stern above them, were silhouetted against the night sky.

  Inside, the main hall was a welcome to Christmas. The center hall’s huge Christmas tree glittered with lights, glass balls, and gold ribbons.

  “You can tell the Queen Mary’s gone California because of the bank of poinsettias flanking the tree,” Jen said. “It’s beautifully overdone.”

  “No critiquing the décor. Think of it as a bit of home and enjoy.”