Second Chance Summer

by Irene Hannon

  She surveyed the woman across from her. Eleanor Kavanagh’s driver’s license might list her age as seventy-four, but one glance at her trim figure, wedge-cut blond hair and fashionable capris busted any stereotypical notions of the term elderly. “Don’t you ever miss Cincinnati?”

  Her aunt let loose with an unladylike snort. “Not a lick. I didn’t have any complaints about my life there, mind you. I had a fine job that provided a steady income and a comfortable retirement—but being an accountant can’t hold a candle to running an art gallery.” She patted the retriever as he settled at her feet. “I see you kept Bandit dry.”

  “It was a struggle.”

  “I imagine.” Her features softened as she stroked the dog. “Good thing I didn’t go. Once he turns those dark brown eyes on me, I’m a goner. They’re impossible to resist.”

  For some reason an image of the man from the beach materialized in Rachel’s mind. Though his eyes had been hidden behind sunglasses, she had a feeling they were hard to resist, too.

  “Rachel?”

  She blinked and refocused on her aunt. “Sorry. I drifted for a minute.”

  “I noticed. I asked if there were many people on the beach.”

  “No. I had it almost to myself.” She claimed one of the wicker rocking chairs on the porch.

  “I thought you might. I’ve been sitting here for a while and I only saw one other person cross the access bridge over the dunes. He was leaving.”

  Rachel set the chair in motion. “Yes. I noticed him.” No need to recount the whole incident with the Frisbee—or to mention her brief, charged interchange with the man.

  “I couldn’t get a clear look at him from this distance, but he seemed fairly young...from my perspective, at any rate.” Her aunt swirled the ice in her glass of lemonade. “I don’t see many solitary young men around here. I wonder if he’s married.”

  “No.” At her immediate response, Rachel frowned. For some strange reason, the image of his bare left hand was clear in her mind. “I mean, he wasn’t wearing a ring. But a lot of guys don’t. His wife might have gone shopping.”

  “That’s not a big draw here.”

  “True. There isn’t a mall in sight.”

  “But we do have a century-old hotel that serves high tea and hosts croquet tournaments on the lawn, plus a wonderful restored historic district. I’ll take charm over shopping any day.”

  “I’m with you.” At least her aunt was off the subject of the muscular swimmer.

  “Speaking of charm...from the glimpse I had, that young man appeared to be quite handsome. You must have gotten a close-up look, if you could check for a ring.”

  So much for any hope of changing the subject.

  As warmth rose on her cheeks, Rachel leaned down to brush a few grains of sand off one of her flip-flops. “I didn’t check for a ring. I just happened to notice his bare hand when we exchanged a few words.” Maybe Aunt El wouldn’t spot the telltale flush.

  No such luck.

  “I do believe you might have gotten a bit too much sun.” Eleanor appraised her. “Your face is pink. Remember to take it easy for the first few days, until you get acclimated. And don’t forget the sunscreen.”

  “Duly noted. With my fair complexion, I make liberal use of it at home in Richmond, too.”

  Her aunt dismissed that comment with a wave. “Sun in the city and sun on the beach are two very different things. That young man certainly had a nice tan.”

  Oh, brother.

  Rising, Rachel reached for her tote bag. “I think I’ll go ahead and change. I have to be at the hotel in an hour.”

  “When’s your first program?”

  “Next week.”

  “You’ve only been here two days—I wish you’d take some time to unwind before you dive into work again. That’s why I didn’t schedule you at the gallery right away.”

  Rachel slung her tote bag over her shoulder and bent down to pet Bandit as she passed. “I’ll have a week off. Any more downtime, and I’d go crazy. Besides, I love being around children, so it’s hardly work. And I’m used to being busy.”

  “Too busy, if you ask me.”

  “Busy is good.”

  “Not when it’s an excuse.” Her aunt gave her a shrewd look over the rim of her lemonade glass as she took a sip.

  Straightening up, Rachel planted one hand on her hip. “For what?”

  “Getting on with your life.”

  She exhaled slowly. This was not a discussion she wanted to have during this vacation—but her aunt’s serious expression told her that while she might be able to escape it today, the topic was going to come up again.

  “I have gotten on with my life. I have a great job helping kids discover their inner artist. I’m active at church. I have a lovely circle of friends. I prefer to think of my life as full rather than busy.”

  Her aunt watched her for a moment. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”

  Ah. So that’s what this was about. She should have guessed. Aunt El had dropped a few subtle hints last summer about the importance of romance, which she’d ignored. But there was a disconcerting determination in her manner this year.

  Perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a relaxing summer after all.

  “It’s only been three years, Aunt El.” She tightened her grip on the strap of the tote bag, her voice subdued. “Someday I might go down that road again. But I’ve only just begun to entertain that idea. I’m nowhere near ready to act on it.”

  Eleanor took another sip of her lemonade. “Well, you know best, of course. I just don’t want to see you end up alone. The way you love children, you should have a houseful of your own.”

  A twinge of pain echoed in her heart. That had been the plan, once upon a time. But she and Mark had barely gotten past the launch stage.

  She didn’t want to talk about that, either.

  “Maybe it’s not in the cards.”

  “The only way to find out is to play the game.”

  Time to go on the offensive.

  “But you never married, and you’ve always been perfectly happy.”

  For one tiny second, a shadow darkened Eleanor’s eyes, come and gone so fast Rachel would have thought she’d imagined it—except for her aunt’s next words.

  “I’ve been happy because I chose to be. Sometimes you have to accept what life hands you and make the best of it. But if I’d had the chance to marry and create a family, I’d have done it in a heartbeat.”

  Rachel stared at her, speechless. Everyone in the family had always assumed Aunt El had been a confirmed bachelorette from the get-go. Spunky, independent, smart, witty—she’d always been viewed by the female side of the family as proof a woman alone could march to the beat of her own drummer and lead a joy-filled, productive life.

  “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry you never met the right man.”

  A whisper of sadness echoed in the depths of Eleanor’s eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

  Rachel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  The sadness evaporated, and Eleanor was once again her upbeat, no-nonsense self. “That’s a story for another day, my dear. You best get ready for your meeting at the hotel.”

  A few minutes ago, Rachel had been anxious to break away from her aunt. Now she hesitated, her curiosity piqued.

  Eleanor’s eyes began to twinkle. “You know, we all have our secrets, good and bad. Close as the two of us have always been, I daresay you haven’t told me all of yours, either...old or new.”

  Her encounter with the man on the beach replayed through her mind, and once again her neck warmed.

  “I thought so.” Eleanor sent her a smug look.

  She was out of there.

  “I’ll be back in time for dinner.” Rachel called
the comment over her shoulder as she flip-flopped into the house. How in the world had they gotten on the subject of secrets?

  And what secrets did her aunt harbor?

  Yet as she dropped her tote on the bed and selected an outfit to wear to the hotel, thoughts of Aunt El’s secrets gave way to the solitary man on the beach. A tanned, fit swimmer with an artificial leg and no wedding ring who wouldn’t have given her a second look if Bandit hadn’t intervened.

  We all have our secrets, good and bad.

  What secrets did he have? Were they mostly good...or bad?

  She pulled the puckered seersucker sundress from its hanger, running her fingers over the alternating rows of textured stripes. Smooth, bumpy, smooth, bumpy. Kind of like life—smooth patches followed by lots of bumps and wrinkles.

  Based on his artificial leg, the guy at the beach had had his share of rough patches. Maybe more than his share. What had happened to him? Why was he alone? What had brought him to Jekyll Island?

  Shaking her head, Rachel tossed the dress on the bed and detoured to the bathroom to touch up her French braid. She needed to switch gears and psyche herself up for her meeting with the new activities director at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel. She hadn’t come here to think about strangers on a beach or dates or whether her busy...full...schedule at home was healthy.

  She’d come here to relax.

  And neither her aunt’s prodding nor an unsettling encounter on the beach were going to interfere with that plan.

  Chapter Two

  “Did you have any problem finding the beach access?”

  As Louise Fletcher stepped from the house to the patio, a plate of cookies in hand, Fletch tried not to stare. Last time he’d come for a visit, his grandmother had been her usual self—short hair neatly coiffed in the tight curls she’d always favored, sensible flat shoes, modest-length dark skirt and crisp blouse.

  Now she looked like an aging hippie. What was with the spiky blow-dried hair and the bare feet and the floor-length muumuu thing?

  “Young man, you’ve been inspecting me like I’m an alien ever since you arrived yesterday.” She set the plate of cookies on the table beside him and eased into the adjacent chair, cradling the cast on her left wrist. “What’s the problem?”

  That direct approach was new, too. Gram used to be much more soft-spoken and discreet.

  Clearing his throat, he helped himself to a cookie. “You just look a lot different than when I came for Thanksgiving.”

  “I should hope so. It took me a while, but I finally got with the program.”

  “What program?” He took a bite of the cookie, letting the warm chocolate chips dissolve on his tongue. At least one thing hadn’t changed. His grandmother’s baking skills were still top-notch—though how she’d managed to make these one-handed, he had no idea.

  “This is island living, my boy. We’re casual here. Throw out the girdle. Throw out the pantyhose. Throw out the curlers. I might be seventy-seven, but I’m not too old to learn a few new tricks.”

  Aiming a dubious look her direction, Fletch shoved another cookie in his mouth.

  “What?”

  “You’re...different. That’s all.”

  “I prefer the word better.”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “I am—and that’s all that counts.”

  Truth be told, her new feistiness was kind of a hoot. She and Gramp had enjoyed a long and happy marriage, but she’d really come into her own in widowhood and done things he’d never expected. Like taking that around-the-world cruise on a freighter a year ago, then moving here last fall without consulting anyone.

  Not that he was certain he approved of this latest adventure. She was almost eighty, after all, and the closest hospital was miles away, on the mainland.

  But Gram didn’t need his approval. She liked the changes in her life, and she was right—that was all that counted.

  Even if this latest one had produced a broken wrist.

  As if reading his mind, Gram leaned forward and fixed him with an intent look. “Now see here, young man.” The slight Southern twang of her Nashville roots was another thing that hadn’t changed. “I could have tripped over a shopping cart in any parking lot in any grocery store in this country. It just happened to be in Brunswick. And Eleanor Kavanagh, bless her soul, took fine care of me until you got here.”

  She settled back, her expression thoughtful. “Funny how you can go through your whole life and then, in the last stages, find the best friend you ever had.” She shook her head. “All part of God’s plan, I guess.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing her again. We didn’t have much chance to get acquainted at Thanksgiving.”

  “You can say hello at church on Sunday. You’re going to services, aren’t you?”

  Fletch shifted and gave the task of selecting his next cookie more attention than it deserved. “No, but I’ll be happy to drop you off.”

  “Still at odds with the Almighty, I see.”

  He settled on a cookie he no longer wanted. “Let it go, Gram.”

  Several beats of silence ticked by.

  “We don’t have to discuss it if you don’t want to—but I intend to keep praying. And I can get a ride with Eleanor to church. So...you never answered my question. Did you have any problem finding the beach access?”

  He leaned back in his chair. Good. She’d let the subject of his lapsed faith drop—for now. “No. Your directions were excellent. I would never have guessed there were access points tucked into the residential streets.”

  “Most people wouldn’t. That’s why those beaches are usually empty. Did you have it all to yourself?”

  “Almost.” Fletch chewed the cookie, visualizing the blonde. “I only had to share it with a woman and her dog.”

  “That sounds about right. I walked that beach every day before I broke this,” she wiggled the fingers protruding from the cast, “and I never saw more than a couple of people. They were always friendly, though. Seems like beaches bring out the best in people. Did you have an opportunity to chat with her?”

  Their brief exchange didn’t qualify as a chat, and as for friendly...not even close.

  “I went there to swim, not talk.” He washed down the last of the cookie with a swig of soda.

  Twin furrows creased her brow. “I hope you’re not turning into a recluse.”

  One side of his mouth hiked up. “Trust me, Gram. The accident might have sidelined me for a few months, but in the past year I’ve led an active social life.”

  The furrows diminished a bit. “So in other words, you’re just waiting for the right woman to come along.”

  It wasn’t quite that simple...but close enough for this discussion.

  “More or less.”

  Her forehead smoothed out. “Nice to know. Because your brother doesn’t seem in any hurry to get married, and I want to enjoy some grandbabies before the good Lord calls me home.”

  Fletch’s fingers tightened on the empty aluminum can, the crinkling noise echoing in the sudden silence. After a moment, he set it on the patio table, pulled his cell off his belt and stood. “I need to return a call. Would you like me to take the cookies inside?”

  “Please. Otherwise, I’ll eat too many—and I made them for you. That’s not a chore I plan to tackle again until this comes off, by the way.” She lifted her cast. “So enjoy them.”

  “I appreciate the effort.” Fletch bent down and kissed her forehead. “But no more heavy cooking. I can take over a lot of the KP while I’m here. It won’t be up to your standards, but we’ll get by.”

  She waved the offer aside. “I can prepare simple things. The least I can do is feed you after disrupting your life. I don’t know what I’d have done if your work wasn’t portable.”

 
“Well, it is and I’ll manage fine with the island as a temporary base.” Not quite true, but no need to lay any guilt on Gram about the inconvenience.

  “You have to promise me you’ll build in some social time, though. I don’t expect you to wait on me hand and foot. Besides, you’re not getting any younger. You need to think about settling down and starting a family.”

  Gram’s new lifestyle might be casual and laid-back, but she clearly hadn’t dialed down her determination see him married.

  “Thirty-five isn’t exactly over the hill.”

  “No...but you don’t want to be dealing with night feedings and diapers in your forties if you can help it.”

  Fletch forced his lips into the semblance of a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Juggling the plate of cookies in his hand, he reentered the house. Only then did he allow the corners of his mouth to flatten.

  Gram was right.

  He wasn’t getting any younger.

  But he had secrets she didn’t know. Guilt that ate at his soul. Grief that remained raw after two and a half years.

  It would take a very special woman to deal with all the baggage he carried.

  And so far, he was batting zero.

  Leaving him less than upbeat that his chances were going to improve anytime soon.

  * * *

  As Eleanor slowed the car to a stop on a tiny lane that bisected the interior of the island, she gestured toward a small bungalow. “That’s Louise’s house.”

  Rachel surveyed the well-kept cottage, the tidy yard and the flower-rimmed sidewalk that led to the front door. “It’s charming. How’s she adjusting to island life?”

  “After only eight months, you’d think she was a native. Took to it like a duck to water. I knew she would the day we met at church.” Eleanor glanced from her watch to the door. “That broken wrist must be slowing her down, though. Louise is always punctual—and she hates to be late for services.”

  “Would you like me to ring the bell?”

  Eleanor tapped her finger on the steering wheel. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Maybe she could use a hand with a zipper or something.”