Just One More Chance: Baytown Boys Series

by Maryann Jordan

  “I love the coffee shop downstairs and since mom and dad travel more now, it really has become my own. But it’s the galleria up here that I’d like to focus on next. I’ve been in contact with some more artists in the area and offered them a spot to showcase their works here. Since the coffee shop closes after lunch, I’d like to host some wine and cheese nights up here. I’m even hoping to bring in some dealers from around the area, not just the tourists that wander up here to look.”

  “I love that idea!” Tori gushed, catching Jillian’s excitement.

  Katelyn’s wide smile matched Tori’s appreciation. “Girl, you just might have something here! I think it’s wonderful!”

  Jillian said, “Well, I don’t want to dream too big. And I know it’s crazy, because I’m not artistic myself. But I’ve always loved the painters who come here and capture the beauty of the Eastern Shore. I’d love to be able to be the middleman between their work and marketing it beyond this area.”

  “Do you have any other artists you’re going to be talking to?” Tori inquired.

  “Actually, I’ve lined up several. Mitch’s friend from the Army who moved here is one of them.”

  “Lance?” Katelyn asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “I know, right?” Jillian answered. “He’s about as antisocial as they come, but he does beautiful work with the sea glass. I don’t know if he’ll be interested, but I’ve got an appointment to talk to him tomorrow. And then there are two painters that live in Accawmacke County, just north of here, that I’m in discussions with. And, there’s a potter who has a studio about fifteen miles north, who has expressed an interest in my endeavor. He said he would come down later this week to meet with me.”

  “Wow, I’m so impressed,” Katelyn admitted, a wide smile on her face. As the three women stood to take their coffee cups back downstairs, they embraced. “And proud of you, girl.”

  Jillian fought back the bite of tears that stung her eyes as she felt her friends’ arms around her. “Well, it’s time. Time to take back my life and move forward.” Now, if only it didn’t hurt so much giving up on Grant.

  Chapter 3

  A long nap, followed by a run on the beach worked wonders for Grant’s disposition. The breeze coming off the bay as he ran had cooled the sweat running down his face as his feet pounded the sand. Now, back in his small rental house, standing in the shower, the water washed the sweat from his body, invigorating him. After pulling on a pair of boxers and well-worn jeans, he walked into his kitchen, grabbed a water bottle and chugged the cold liquid. Fixing a sandwich, he threw some chips on the plate before finally settling into one of his Adirondack chairs on his porch.

  His house did not have a beach view, but it backed to a wooded lot and he could hear the surf a few blocks away. He kept the grass mowed, but old flower beds sat untended, weeds overtaking the few flowers that attempted to blossom. A vision of his parents’ neatly tended back yard flashed through his mind as he closed his eyes at the high school memory of Jillian planting flowers with his mom while he mowed the yard. Hell, will there ever be a time when she doesn’t pop into my head?

  Sighing, he took the first huge bite of his sandwich as Brogan walked into his back yard and sat down in the other chair. His normally stoic friend was no different now, as he leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes appearing to simply enjoy the afternoon sun. His long, dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and his muscles stretched the black Finn’s Pub t-shirt.

  Grant cast a sideways glance at his friend while chewing the bite of ham and cheese. Swallowing, he asked, “You gonna talk or you just come over to hang out while I eat my lunch?”

  The silence continued for a few minutes as Grant finished his sandwich, washing it down with chilled bottled water. Finally, without opening his eyes, Brogan asked, “You want to talk about last night?”

  “Jesus, who talked to you? Mitch?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I’ve already talked to Mitch this morning and there’s nothing to tell. Hell, it’s not like we’re a bunch of women who need to sit around and analyze everything.”

  Brogan rolled his head sideways against the tall back of the chair, his eyes pinning Grant to his seat. “I know, Grant. I see it.”

  Furrowing his brow, Grant stared back, no words coming. He waited for Brogan to explain, wondering where his thoughts were heading.

  “You came back, but not the same.” A long minute passed once more. “And don’t think I don’t recognize it,” Brogan admitted.

  Minutes passed where the far away sounds of children playing, birds chirping, and the occasional car driving down the road were the only interruptions in the silence. Grant knew Brogan came home from Afghanistan battling inner demons, as they all did, but had never heard him speak of them.

  “I don’t talk about that shit, so I don’t expect you to,” Brogan said. “But you had someone to come home to.”

  Grant sucked in an audible breath before letting it out slowly. Jillian. So we’re back to Jillian. “Nothing to talk about, man.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Brogan slowly leaned forward, placing his hands on the wide, wooden chair arms before heaving himself up. “Don’t forget, we’ve got a meeting tonight,” he said, referring to the American Legion.

  Glad for the change in subject, Grant nodded. “I’ll be there. I think the new resident, that buddy of Mitch’s, will be there. Lance…that was his name.”

  “Good, we need more new blood in this town.” With that, Brogan headed back around the house, disappearing from Grant’s sight.

  Still sitting in the chair, the warm sun beating down on his face, he wondered about Brogan’s unexpected visit. I know the answer…after last night’s stellar, drunken performance, they’re all wondering what the hell is going on with me. Closing his eyes as the sun streamed down, warming his face, he wondered the same thing, as a long-ago memory came back.

  We boys sat in the rickety shed in the back of Callan’s yard. Callan’s dad had bought a new shed to keep his lawn and garden equipment and we convinced him to not tear down the ancient one still leaning against the back fence. Dirt floor, wood slats for walls with spaces between the lumber, an old tin roof. We’d created the clubhouse as kids and it served as a place to gather.

  Callan stepped inside, a bag of frozen peas clutched in his hands. He held them out to me and I took them, holding the icy bag on my knuckles, wincing at the sting. I kept my eyes on my hand, not wanting to see the expressions on my friends’ faces…much less hear their taunts.

  No one spoke and I was no longer able to stand the silence. Without looking up, I said, “What?”

  “Nothin’,” Brogan’s reply came to me from the side, causing me to quickly glance at him. His face held no recrimination…just admiration.

  I looked around the small, wooden room at the other Baytown Boys, seeing their smiles as well.

  “You hit him good,” Mitch claimed, ducking his head to hide his smile. “If that kid complains, I’ll tell my dad it was in self-defense!” His dad was the police-chief and I was grateful for his support.

  I was thirteen years old and had just gotten in my first real fight…and over a girl. Some teenage tourist was bothering Jillian and while she was Mitch’s cousin, before he could defend her I jumped up and punched the guy in the face. As much as my hand hurt, I figured his nose felt worse.

  “I wasn’t gonna let him make fun of her!” I protested, knowing I had thrown the first punch.

  Brogan nudged my shoulder from the side and with a nod of his head, gave his silent approval of my actions.

  “The girls may be a pain in the butt sometimes, but no one mistreats them,” Zac pronounced, stating what we all felt.

  “Do you think I scared her?” I wondered aloud, remembering the horrified look on Jillian’s face as the kid ran away holding his nose.

  “Naw,” Aiden said. “Girls like having their honor defended.”

  Brogan smacked the back of Ai
den’s head and asked, “Where the hell did you learn something like that?”

  With a smirk, Aiden puffed out his chest. “I heard Rachel Myers say that in class the other day. She read it in some book and was going on and on about how she’d only fall for a man who defended her honor.”

  “So now you’re getting your girl-advice from Rachel Myers?” Brogan laughed.

  “Hey, she’s got boobs so she ought to know something, right?”

  Brogan popped Aiden in the back of the head again as he said, “Boobs aren’t the same as brains!”

  Just as his brother was slumping back, Mitch agreed. “I think that’s right,” he said. “I think girls know when someone’s trying to stand up for them.”

  Mitch was the most upstanding kid I knew, so his words gave me hope. Taking the frozen peas off of my hand, I flexed my fingers, glad they all worked properly. Grinning at the others, my heart lighter, I said, “Come on, let’s get back to the beach.”

  Within a few minutes, we were back on the town beach and Jillian walked straight up to me and grabbed my sore hand. Her blue eyes, the color of the water on a summer day, sparkled as she lifted my slightly swollen fingers to her lips. Placing a kiss on them, she whispered, “Thank you,” before running off with the other girls.

  Standing on the white sand, I gave a loud “whoop” before running after the others.

  And now I’m the one deserving the punch. Opening his eyes, Grant stood and took his empty plate to the kitchen, the warmth of the sun—and the memory—fresh in his mind.

  *

  Jillian looked up as she heard footsteps on the staircase leading to the galleria. Standing, she walked over to greet her visitor. Tall, incredibly handsome, intelligent eyes that quickly scanned over the open space. Sticking out her hand, she smiled up at him. “Mr. Greene?”

  Her hand was engulfed in his much larger one as he replied, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Evans.”

  “Please, call me Jillian.”

  “Lance,” he replied. “I understand you’re Mitch’s cousin.”

  “Yes, I am, but please don’t hold that against me,” she joked. He nodded curtly, but did not smile. Hmm, okay, I guess we better get right down to business. “If you’ll join me, I’ll explain what I have here and what I hope to accomplish.”

  She turned and walked over to one of the tables, coffee and pastries already in place. “I took the liberty to have a small snack prepared, so please, help yourself.”

  He sat, but made no attempt to either drink the coffee or avail himself of a muffin. Instead, he focused his gaze on the artwork around the walls. Jillian watched him, her nerves now in full force. Since Mitch, the Baytown Boys, and some of the older veterans in the town had re-established the American Legion her cousin had been instrumental in inviting some of the other military veterans, who did not have a hometown, to consider moving to Baytown. Lance Greene was one of the early transplants…and one of the most enigmatic.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she smiled once more as she began. “I have a few local artists that showcase their work here and I’d like to expand. Mitch told me that you create art with the sea glass that you find in the area. I’d like to see some of your work and would love to have you display some of it here. My goal is to begin hosting evening events where buyers would come to see the art. Perhaps it would give you more marketability.”

  His gaze met hers as he said, “I’m not looking to expand further than I have. I create…just to create. I need to make a living like everyone else, but I don’t want it to be more than that.”

  Thinking fast, she responded, “Then you would have a place to share your creations. Even if you weren’t interested in selling any of your pieces, you would be showcasing some of the talent…and raw materials from the Eastern Shore.”

  “If I don’t sell, what do you get out of it?” he asked, his gaze dropping to his hands resting on the table.

  “Mr. Gree—I mean, Lance. I’m not in this to make a lot of money.” She noted his gaze jumped back to hers at that confession. Taking a fortifying breath, she explained. “I’ve lived in Baytown my whole life, except for college. I’m a small-town girl at heart.” Giving a little shrug, she continued, “I love the people and the culture. I make a decent living with the coffee shop downstairs, so this is not a money-making venture for me. If something sells and I get a commission, great. But for me, I just want to show others what beauty can come from the Eastern Shore. As you can see, I have painters, woodcarvers, and someone that does metalwork. I even have someone who makes herons from PVC pipes! I’m going to be talking to someone later this week about his pottery. So, I’d love to have you exhibit your work here…whether for sale or just to share the beauty of your craft.”

  Her speech complete, she wiped her palms on her jeans, wondering what he was thinking. His unemotional face gave nothing away.

  He shifted his eyes, contemplating the warm, paneled space, stopping to observe the natural light coming in from the tall front windows. Looking back at her, he nodded curtly as he stood. “If I had any doubts about your endeavors, Jillian…you’ve just put them to rest. I’ll offer some pieces for you to display. And if you want to sell them, fine. But donate the money or something—I don’t want it.”

  She tilted her head to the side, pondering aloud. “How about we consider the donations to go to the American Legion or some other veteran organization?” For a second, she thought she saw a flash of life in his eyes before the mask slid back down in place and he simply nodded.

  Beaming, she jumped up to shake his hand. “Thank you so much,” she gushed, knowing she did not sound professional, but could not hold back her enthusiasm. Seeing the corners of his mouth curve up slightly, she smiled even broader. Following him as he descended the stairs, she wondered what was hidden behind his handsome, but steel, exterior. And noted that while she was excited to have his artwork with her, he held no romantic interest.

  Following him outside, they stopped on the sidewalk and he turned to face her. Shaking hands once more, he said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Grasping his hand with both of hers, she squeezed in excitement. “Thank you so much, Lance. I can’t wait to hear from you. I think this will be wonderful for both of us.”

  With a curt nod, he walked to his vehicle. Her genuine smile still firmly in place, her gaze followed him until it landed on a man standing outside his SUV parked across the street. The man, leaning back with his muscular arms crossed over his chest and one thick leg crossed over the other, stared back. Glaring. Grant? What the hell is he doing?

  She stared for a moment at his face, observing a mixture of surprise and what appeared to be anger directed at her. His gaze slid to the side where Lance was driving away, and for a second she entertained the notion that he was jealous. Well, after last night, you don’t get to go there, buddy! She watched as he lifted his hand to wave and she stood straighter. Spinning on her heel, her braid whipping around, she stomped back into the coffee shop, placing the CLOSED sign in the window before slamming and locking the door.

  *

  Dropping his chin to his chest, Grant placed his hands on his hips, standing at the edge of the street for a moment. Chest heaving with a huge sigh, he wondered what he was doing. Hell, I was just driving down the street when I saw Lance come out of Jillian’s shop with her. And then she grabbed his hands, smiled up at him like…like…fuck…like I want her to smile at me.

  Looking at his watch, he decided to make a stop before going to the American Legion meeting. Getting back into his vehicle, he drove a few miles out of town and parked outside a modest home whose back yard backed up to the dunes overlooking the bay. Walking to the front door, he knocked once, but knew it would be unlocked. Opening, he shouted, “Mom? Dad? You around?”

  “Grant?” he heard his mom call from the kitchen. Marcia Wilder walked out, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her dark brown hair was now streaked with a bit of grey she proudly proclaimed all the Baytown Boys gave her with their antics
growing up. She barely came to his chin as she threw her arms around his waist. Giving her son a hug, she said, “Come on back. Your dad’s parked in front of the ball game before going to the meeting and I’m baking a few pies for the church sale.”

  Following her petite frame as they turned the corner, he saw his dad reclined back watching football. Grant inherited his athletic build from his father, who had played football for the local high school many years before Grant graced the same field.

  “Don’t get up, dad,” Grant rushed to say, seeing his father reaching for the handle on the side of the old recliner. When his mom bought new furniture years ago, his dad insisted on keeping the worn, brown recliner, saying it was broken in to fit his body. His mom had argued and while his dad normally gave in to her, he stood, or rather sat, firm. And so the ratty chair was now occupied and Grant had to admit that his dad appeared relaxed.

  Sitting on the sofa facing the TV, Grant leaned back, the comfortable aura of the family room settling over him. A patterned rug was centered on the wooden floor underneath the maple coffee table. The sofa, a rocking chair, and recliner surrounded the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall over the fireplace, family pictures crowding the mantle. After a few minutes of his father’s grunts at the late hits and a few curses at the official’s calls, Toby Wilder turned the volume down and looked over.

  “Got something on your mind, son?”

  Grant visibly startled before asking, “What makes you think that?”

  “’Cause you haven’t made one comment about this game in the past ten minutes. Our team’s losing and I’m not sure you’ve even noticed. That, my boy, tells me your mind is elsewhere.” Pinning Grant with a steely look, he said, “Everything okay at work?”

  “Yeah, yeah” Grant assured. “Job’s good. No regrets there.”

  “Baytown’s not as exciting as your job with the Virginia Beach Police force.”