First Choice, Second Chance

by Lynn Rae

  She lost track of Paul for a moment until he climbed back into the truck and gave her a reassuring nod. There was a tap on the passenger window next to her ear, and she jumped. Grasping the old-fashioned handle, she awkwardly rolled the window down to find the police officer watching her again.

  “Hi, aren’t you Emily, from the Palmer Mayor’s Office?”

  “That’s right. Emily Fontaine.”

  The officer gave her a slow grin, which transformed him from forbidding lawman to attractive young guy. “Right. I thought I remembered you. I sort of met you in June at the jamboree. You said it was your first week here. You were with Angie. She’s my aunt.”

  Now she remembered, at least she remembered going to the festival with Angie and meeting several people, most of them related to the other woman.

  “I’m Mitch Walton.” He introduced himself, and Emily worried about the etiquette of reaching a hand out the window to shake an armed man’s hand. Instead of taking the risk, she simply waved. Paul remained silent next to her.

  “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You, too.” He grinned even more, and his eyes warmed beneath the wide brim of his hat. “Ah, maybe I’ll see you around town sometime. Or at the Sugar Beet Festival. I’m only scheduled for one shift.”

  “Maybe. Okay.” Emily wondered why he was telling her all this when she was in a truck, stopped in the middle of a dark highway, surrounded by reckless deer. Officer Mitch dipped his hat and ambled off toward his vehicle with an admonition to watch out for wildlife. Paul started the truck with a purr of its electric engine, maneuvered them back into the correct lane, and accelerated toward home.

  Completely root-bound. Well, that’s what you got when you bought potted plants at the end of the season. Paul contemplated the twisting roots of his new Chelone glabra. It had been sitting on a shelf at his favorite greenhouse in Dayton for at least six months, waiting for someone to pick it up and bring it home, growing every day, its roots twining around and around until they resembled the bottom of the pot which confined it.

  He picked up his knife and sighed. He always hated to cut and loosen the knotted mass, but if he didn’t, the plant might not send out an exploratory root underground, and it would continue to develop in a stunted manner, fooled into thinking it was still restrained in a cheap plastic container.

  With a few slices and careful pulls, he’d opened up the root ball and settled the plant into the hole he’d prepared and checked its size. Not big enough. With a sigh, he pulled out the turtlehead, stood with a creak of his tricky knee, and grabbed his spade.

  As he sliced out more earth, careful to avoid the Joe Pye Weed and a nearly dormant yarrow crowding alongside, he thought about Emily and her planting project. He decided he’d go downtown later to take a look at how the planters had turned out. Her insistence on getting the wild-growing and unusual amaranths made him smile. He had a feeling she had a bit of an eccentric streak hidden underneath her well-put together exterior.

  Contemplating Emily’s exterior wasn’t the wisest thing to do when he was shoveling, because he looked down to discover he’d sliced off a hand-sized chunk of the Joe Pye’s exposed roots. Murmuring an apology to the innocent plant, he tossed the unsalvageable section into the waiting wheelbarrow and paused for a moment. Why shouldn’t he appreciate how attractive she was? It wasn’t like he was slavering after her like a hormonal teen. She was curvy and sweet and her smile made him happy. Nothing untoward or inappropriate about admitting that. Sure, he liked her and was interested in spending more time with her, but it didn’t mean he was interested. He hadn’t been interested in anyone since Karen’s death, so it was unlikely his streak had been broken because of a few chance encounters.

  He leaned over and tucked the Chelone back into the expanded hole and was pleased with the fit. Adding some compost from the heap behind the shed, he poured in a generous serving of water and waited for it to drain. As he filled in the hole around the new plant, he thought about Emily a little more; it was easier now that he’d decided there was nothing wrong with it. It was clear she wanted to do a good job in her role as substitute chair for the statue committee, and it would be easy for him to help her along. All he’d have to do was ride herd on Roger and Dave. Perhaps he could even talk Shelly into letting her remain on board after his sister took up the reins again. It would be good for Emily’s résumé when she tried for that job in Marfield. Not for the first time, he wondered how long the grant employing her would hold out.

  The sound of a car pulling up interrupted the quiet of the neighborhood, and he stuck his shovel in the ground before heading around the side of the house to see who it was. He recognized his brother-in-law’s SUV and raised a hand in greeting. Mike was likely looking to bend someone’s ear about Shelly’s latest edicts, and since Paul had grown up with her, he was usually the most sympathetic audience.

  “Paul, finally clearing out all these weeds?”

  It was a family joke. Landscaping standards were pretty rigid in Palmer, well-trimmed lawn, restrained shrubs, maple out front, pines in the back, and a few clusters of annual bloomers around the front door. His wild assortment of native grasses and perennials looked like a jungle by comparison.

  “Actually, adding some more.” Paul hoped his mild response would divert Mike onto another topic, one that didn’t involve any criticisms of his hobby.

  Mike shook his head as he exited his vehicle, exaggeratedly stepping around some solidago leaning over the path to the backyard, their golden heads heavy with blooms. “You know, my mom had me pull those up by the bucket when I was a kid.”

  Paul shrugged. He liked the goldenrods, liked watching how enthusiastically the butterflies and bugs descended into the flowers.

  “I know a couple of guys who could clean this place up and give it great sidewalk appeal in a couple of weeks. Have you moved into someplace smaller before the snow flies this winter.” Mike couldn’t help himself. He was a realtor and had been gently suggesting Paul sell and move to someplace smaller six months after Karen had passed away. On paper it made sense, but he had no urge to move himself. Maybe he was as root-bound as one of his clearance plants.

  “Thanks, Mike, but I finally have my workshop just the way I like it.” And my prairie garden, he added to himself. Several swallowtail butterflies rose up from a bright orange asclepsis patch in a flutter of color and gentle movement. No, he wasn’t interested in trimming a bayberry bush into a square and calling it a day in his yard.

  “All kidding aside, I know of a couple of people looking for something like your place right now. Families with young kids who want to be in a quiet neighborhood close to town, not out in that big subdivision in Atlee’s old cornfield.” Mike tilted his head and gave Paul a speculative look. “It could give Courtney a good foundation at the office.”

  Parental guilt and responsibility blossomed. Here was yet another way he could assist his fumbling daughter, or step back and let her make her own way. Then again, was he willing to sell his house just so she could get a commission? No.

  “How’s Courtney doing?” Paul’s daughter had just embarked on a fledgling Realtor career at her uncle’s office, and Paul was never quite sure if he should thank Mike for giving her the opportunity, or apologize for Courtney’s sometimes-questionable work ethic.

  Mike nodded his head and made a seesawing motion with his hand. “She’s getting more comfortable with showing houses, and she’s good at writing listings.”

  That was something. It wasn’t exactly blazing success, but she was showing up.

  “Why don’t you help her out?” Mike asked with a sly grin. “Give her the listing for this big house you’re still bouncing around in. You’ve got lots of equity built up in it. Get yourself something with less upkeep. I’m getting ready to list a condo right now that would be perfect.

  “Location like this would mean an extra ten thousand easy. You’ve kept it up really well, other than letting the yard go to hell.” Mike grinned w
ith delight at the crack he’d been able to make about Paul’s prairie.

  “No thanks, Mike. I’m pretty much settled in here. Courtney needs to practice with something else. Besides, I don’t think she’s ready to offload her childhood home.”

  Mike nodded like he understood, but Paul knew he and his sister had sold their homes and uprooted their kids several times over the last decade, whenever an impossible-to-resist real estate deal came to his attention. It didn’t faze Shelly at all. She was a compulsive list maker and getting to organize her whole household into neatly labeled boxes was a joy to her.

  “Worth a try.” Mike cleared his throat and batted his hands at a locust that made the mistake of landing on his chest. Paul had to repress a smile as the other man flailed at the insect.

  “What can I help you with?” Paul gestured toward the backyard, and his brother-in-law made his way cautiously, almost as if he expected to be ambushed by a tiger attack from under the buddleia bushes.

  “Shelly wanted me to stop by and check on you.”

  Paul couldn’t help his skeptical laugh. “Are you sure she doesn’t want a report from me on her statue committee?”

  Mike shook his head and had the grace to look abashed. “Well, she did mention she’d appreciate some info on your field trip. After I checked up on you, of course.”

  Paul wasn’t sure what to say; sure he didn’t want to reveal he’d given his sister’s young marketing person a ride home last night. And had inadvertently touched her breasts when he’d flung his arm up to stop her from sliding forward during his sudden braking. “Didn’t Emily let her know what happened?”

  “Emily?”

  “She’s the woman Shelly hired her to do the downtown marketing project.”

  Mike gazed absently for a second, and then his mental gears caught. “Right, the girl with the grant money.”

  That was one way to put it. “Didn’t she send Shelly an update?” Maybe she’d been more shaken up by the encounter with the deer than he’d thought.

  “Probably. Maybe you could just call Shelly later and let her question you to her heart’s content. She could check up on you directly then.”

  Paul didn’t think he needed minders anymore. In the weeks and months following Karen’s death, both Shelly and Mike had been vigilant about making sure he and Courtney were fed, the house was clean, and they had company whenever they wanted it, but the attention had gradually faded away, as it should. “I’m doing fine, Mike. Busy with lots of things, work projects, my garden, now this committee.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?” Mike asked as he peered at Paul with a genuinely concerned gaze. “Courtney’s been on her own a while now, and I know you think I’m just trying to get a listing, but this place is big for one person. I can’t imagine being in my house alone.”

  There was a lot of truth in that statement. Mike was a social person; he liked nothing more than to have his friends and family close by for conversation and whatever amusements he could think up. But before he could say he wasn’t lonely at all and reassure his brother-in-law and sister by proxy that he’d arranged his life to his liking, Paul paused. “Sometimes, I do get lonely.”

  It was a different sort of lonely now, not at all like the searing pain of missing his wife after she’d died. Now, it was more the wish for someone to sit next to as he read the paper, someone to ask him if he’d like another cup of coffee in the morning.

  Mike nodded once and peered at him. “Maybe you should get a dog.”

  Paul couldn’t help himself, he laughed again, and this time Mike joined in.

  Chapter 3

  Emily blinked at the dazzle surrounding her. She stood in a crowded costume shop with Angie Peterson and her compatriot, Linda Good, as they debated which tiara would be best for the yet-to-be-crowned Sugar Beet Queen. The shop owner had pulled a huge assortment of victory headgear for them to look over, and the variety astounded her.

  Tall and spiky ones, some with glittering stones hanging from little loops that moved and caught the light continuously, others shaped with flowers or flames; all were amazing and something Emily, who’d never participated in or even attended a pageant, had no experience with. Therefore, she was nodding and exclaiming with pleasure along with the other women but refraining from expressing her opinion. Especially since the only thought she had wasn’t exactly complimentary; all the crowns looked like their attached combs would dig into the scalp in a painful way.

  “Oh, this one is amazing,” Angie cooed as she lifted one shaped like ocean waves.

  “I think we need to find something more beet-like.” Linda gave her fellow pageant coordinator a stare.

  “Beets aren’t very pretty.”

  “Then why do we have this festival in the first place?”

  “Because, they sell for a good price and people are addicted to sugar?”

  Peg, the owner of the shop, gave Emily an amused glance as the two women bickered. Emily smiled back and edged away from the black-velvet-draped table holding the tiaras.

  Half of the shop was full of racks stuffed with all sorts of costumes. There were pirates and mummies and deformed killer disguises hanging next to sweet princess gowns complete with flounced tulle underskirts. The other half of the store was a riot of glittering and shiny prom and pageant dresses. Angie had told her Peg did alterations and carried lines unavailable outside major cities like Chicago and New York, so her shop was a Mecca for girls hunting for the perfect gown to impress the judges on the pageant circuit.

  Emily glanced around as the other women discussed possibilities and giggled as they tried on tiaras. The colors and textures of the clothing around her were fascinating, and if she was honest with herself, she’d love to commandeer a dressing room and fill it with some of the more extravagant gowns. Not that she’d ever wear such cinched in and low-cut dresses; her considerable curves would be wobbling in plain view if she did. No, conservative clothing in modest styles was what she had to wear to be taken seriously. Feminine frills and laced corsets belonged in her fantasies.

  Emily ran her fingertips along a wide band of embroidery at the waist of a pleated, mint-green, ankle-length dress. It had a vintage feel with its square neck and pin-tucked skirt. She’d never need a dress that pretty.

  “It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?” The shop owner had appeared at her side while Emily was mesmerized by the dress.

  “It is. The colors are so unusual.”

  “It doesn’t really fit with the rest, does it?” Peg laughed as she lifted the gown off the rack with a practiced turn of her wrist. “It’s a little subtle for pageants. I ordered it hoping someone would take a shine to it, but it seems like no one wants to take a chance on being overshadowed by someone wearing ombre Lurex.”

  Emily shrugged, not sure what ombre Lurex was, but it was probably very vivid compared to the pale green net and embroidered nude panels of the dress she’d been admiring.

  “This one is suited for your build and coloring.” The shop owner held the dress in front of Emily and tilted her head as she looked it over. “Nothing too fussy, very delicate-looking. But it’s made with this great mesh material that stretches and doesn’t wrinkle no matter what you do to it.”

  Emily pressed the bodice of the dress to her midriff and turned to view her reflection in a conveniently placed mirror. It was oh-so-sweet and impractical, which probably contributed to its appeal.

  “It’s pretty,” Emily agreed, although the word was inadequate for what she saw. The dress made her think of high tea in a luxury hotel, or a garden party in England. It was all quiet conversation, pastries, and flowers.

  “Now, I’m not giving you the hard sell, but it is marked down quite a bit.” Peg smiled at her as she swished the skirt of the dress for effect. “And I’m going to clearance it another twenty-five percent off next week to make room for winter formals, which this definitely isn’t. Would you like me to hold it back for you?”

  Emily automatically shook her head but fou
nd it hard to let go of the soft fabric all the same. Just as she’d found it hard to let go of Paul’s hand the night before. Thinking of him confused her enough that she absentmindedly agreed for Peg to bag up the green gown and stow it away for her to “think about.”

  Angie and Linda both called out for her at the same time, and Emily turned away to join them at the table. They were holding up a tall tiara and grinning with triumph. It had a definite beet-shaped central panel, although she was sure the designers would have used the term teardrop to describe it.

  “Looks perfect. Can we get one ordered in time?” Emily asked, and the other women turned to the shop owner for confirmation.

  “You can walk out with that one today, but if you want one that’s never been worn, it’ll take about a week,” Peg reassured them as she tapped away at her laptop on the counter.

  “Does it come in a junior size and something for attendants? We’ll need those, too.” Linda took over the business side of ordering, which left Angie to try on the new Sugar Beet Queen tiara in front of another mirror.

  “Looks good on you. Were you ever in the pageant?” Emily asked, somewhat distracted by thoughts of the soft green dress and Paul Ellison’s smile.

  “Oh, yes, I was. I wore a canary-yellow gown and came in second runner-up. Danced with so many boys at the Beet Beat dance my feet had blisters the next day.” Angie turned her head from side to side to evaluate the crown’s appeal from several angles. “I heard you ran into Mitchell last night. Well, not ran into, you’d be in jail if you had.”

  Emily laughed. “He was very helpful.”

  “That’s Mitch to a tee. Always has been a decent guy, which hasn’t made it easy for him with women, I can tell you that much.” Angie lifted the crown from her head and inspected the small metal side combs for stray hairs. “All through his twenties it was drama and heartbreak. Always falling for the wrong girl. Now that he’s in his thirties, like you,” Angie paused and gave Emily a pointed look, “he’s ready for the real deal.”