Theirs by Chance

by Karen Ann Dell

  “Sir— Dev. Thanks for giving me a shot at this. I’ll do my best.” Lance felt as if a ton of weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

  “Can’t ask for more than that.”

  Those words took Lance back to Iraq and the recruits he’d gathered to train into a local police force. His introductory speech had been short. “I’ll do my best to teach you how to stay alive. If you give me your best, I’ll never ask for more than that.” When he thought of the ten dead men from his squad, he knew his best hadn’t been nearly good enough.

  Years of caring for her sister made Marjorie an early riser, so by seven a.m. she had showered and dressed. Today she wore the usual attire that was her ‘uniform’ when she had guests: a long, tiered skirt and loose tunic that added about ten pounds. Today’s outfit sported shades of brown and gold, and her light-brown hair was held back by a band and allowed to fall in all its spiraling glory almost to her waist. She checked her roots for any signs of telltale red. Nope. She was good for a few more weeks. Chandelier earrings of her own design sparkled with topaz stones. She put the wire-rimmed glasses on and checked her reflection in the mirror. Marjorie Matthews, Costumes R Us. She sighed. Someday she’d like to do away with all of this. But every time she thought about giving up her disguise, her stomach twisted into knots.

  She headed to the kitchen to start breakfast. Since she had no idea about Lance Fisher’s preferences—his monosyllabic responses as he registered were unenlightening—she decided to provide several choices and see what he liked. After today, the meal would be considerably less lavish. She put applewood-smoked bacon in the oven and two frying pans on the stovetop. She started sausage links in one and home fries in the other. Eggs over easy or an omelet? Over easy. She didn’t want him to think she was going to a lot of trouble for him. Toast, orange juice, and coffee. That should do it. She made a pot of tea for herself and set two places at the table.

  Her timing was perfect. She heard the front door open and looked down the hall. Lance shrugged off his coat and glanced toward the kitchen. When he saw her standing in the doorway, he tipped his head. “Good morning, Ma’am. Uh, Marjorie.” He stood hesitantly, coat in hand. The bands on the sleeves of his polo shirt stretched taut around his biceps, and spikes of black ink hinted at a circular tattoo underneath the left one.

  “Come on back. I’ve got breakfast ready. I hope you’re hungry.”

  He hung his coat on the bentwood stand in the corner and smiled. “I am.” He inhaled deeply. “Smells pretty good, too.”

  When he got to the kitchen doorway, his eyes narrowed. “Are we having company for breakfast?” He studied the room, his gaze lingering on the doors to the backyard and basement.

  “No. Just us. This is only a test run. I never did get your preferences yesterday. Pick what you like so I’ll know from now on what to make.” Marjorie gestured to the place she’d set for him at the table.

  He hesitated, then pointed to the other side of it, where his back would be against the wall. “Would you mind very much if I sat there?”

  She shrugged. “No. If that’s where you’d be more comfortable, go right ahead.” She slid the placemat and silverware over, poured him a glass of juice, then put a big platter with the bacon, eggs, sausages, and home fries in the center of the table.

  He waited politely until she sat down, then began to fill his plate. “Truly, ma’am, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me. I’d be fine with a lot less fuss.”

  A lot less fuss maybe, but not a lot less food. She smiled at the quantity he piled on his plate “Don’t worry. What you don’t eat today will be on tomorrow’s menu.” The man had an appetite to match his size. Marjorie noted what he took the most of for future reference, but he ate some of everything she prepared and seemed to enjoy it all. She sipped her tea, nibbled on toast and bacon, and let him eat without interruption. When he pushed his plate away, she poured him a cup of coffee. “How did your interview go?”

  “Good. I got the job. Not actually the one I thought I would get, but”—he shrugged—“a better one, actually. It’s kind of probationary though. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Well, congratulations. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quickly enough. Did you have any luck finding an apartment yesterday?”

  “No. No luck at all.” Lance set his cup in its saucer and put his forearms on the table. “Marjorie, I have to tell you something.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “You’ve no doubt figured out that I used to be in the Army.”

  “I have.” She smiled. “You can’t ma’am me as much as you do without having been in some branch of the military. Saying thank you for your service doesn’t begin to convey the admiration I have for all members of our armed forces. I—”

  Lance put up his hand to stop her. “I have PTSD, ma’am. You need to know that. Especially if I can’t find a place to live as soon as I’d hoped.” He held her gaze, anxious to see her reaction.

  “Ahh. I see.” She tilted her head and squinted into the distance. “Actually that’s not true. I’ve heard of PTSD of course. You can’t listen to the news anymore without hearing it mentioned. But I don’t really know that much about it, since I’ve never met anyone who has it.” She refilled her cup and pointed to his coffee.

  He shook his head.

  “You make it sound as if it might be dangerous for you to stay here. Are you violent?” That’s the last thing I need, another big, strong man scaring the crap out of me.

  “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t say dangerous. I see a psych doc once a week, and I take some medicine for anxiety. I’ve had a couple of flashbacks, and I can get pretty loud when that happens. But I haven’t had one for weeks now,” he hastened to add. “I just didn’t want to take the chance I might have one without telling you first. I understand if you’d rather I find another place to stay.”

  Marjorie didn’t want to refuse any soldier a place to stay. And she wouldn’t. That didn’t mean she wasn’t nervous about it. “Would it be okay for me to talk to your doctor?” She felt terrible asking him. He was the brave one. She was the coward.

  “No problem, ma’am. His name is Captain Majewski, and I’ll give you his phone number. I’m sure he’ll be glad to talk to you.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and withdrew a business card. “You can have this. I’ve got his number memorized anyway.” He put it on the table and stood. “I’ll be upstairs. If you want me to leave after you’ve talked to Chris, just let me know.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about leaving today, Lance, but thank you for giving me this.” She held the card up.

  “No problem, ma’am.” He left, and she began to clear the table.

  Why me? She sighed. She’d call this Captain Majewski, but unless he told her Lance was homicidal, she knew she’d let him stay.

  When she ignored the physical package, which would incite lust in any woman under eighty, Marjorie’s heart ached for the former soldier. She didn’t know what the cause of his PTSD was, or even if it was precipitated by a single incident. From her point of view, being deployed halfway around the world in a hostile environment would be cause enough without a single shot being fired in her direction.

  Tall, handsome, and obviously strong, with manners any mother would be proud of, Lance checked all the boxes under ‘dream boyfriend.’ If she walked him through town on Saturday, every woman she knew would stop them for an introduction. She’d known him for less than twenty-four hours and was already irresistibly drawn to him. And yet here he was, practically disabled—socially, at least—after putting his own life at risk to keep her, and all Americans, safe at home.

  Chapter 3

  Life was a bitch, Marjorie thought as she returned to the basement to load the next batch of silver castings into the tumbler. How would she react if she was a soldier and a stranger pointed a gun at her
? Would she be able to shoot, not knowing who he was, what his life had been like before he became a soldier? Or would she freeze, and die for her hesitation? Those kinds of decisions must haunt every soldier, and the higher their rank, the more people their decisions affected, the tougher it got.

  There was only one person in this world she would be willing to shoot, and that was her old boss, the man responsible for the deaths of her mother and sister. The loss of the two people she loved the most in the world still left a ragged hole in her heart. But even now, six years later, she shook like a leaf at the thought of coming face to face with him. Often in the Stygian darkness of three a.m., she admitted to herself that she was a coward. Facing that fact didn’t do much for her self-esteem.

  The more Marjorie learned about PTSD, the more she thought she might be a victim herself. She knew what it was like to be constantly afraid. To watch over her shoulder, always expecting to find the scary “security chief” who would drag her back to Bryan, or just kill her instantly and bury her body in some landfill.

  Her phone call to Captain Majewski calmed her fears, and she told Lance he had a room with her until he found something better.

  The first couple of mornings he practically inhaled the food she loaded on his plate, then bolted from the kitchen to his room after a hasty thank you.

  Eventually, he began to relax in her company, and the morning he stayed at the table for a second cup of coffee, she considered it a milestone in their relationship. She never asked about his time in the Army and kept her conversation to neutral topics—the town, the weather, his job. She carried most of the conversational workload and left plenty of silence for him to fill, but his contributions were so brief, she’d have thought he paid five dollars for every word he spoke.

  She thought about Lance a lot—maybe too much—as she worked on the jewelry she planned to display at the Silvercreek Gallery. Zoe Silvercreek and Jeff Petrosky had done a fabulous job renovating the space on Main Street, and until Jeff had created an apartment on the second floor of the building, Zoe had stayed here at the B and B. They had become good friends and although they were only a few years apart in age, Marjorie maintained her ‘motherly’ persona to reinforce the fictional divide. Once Zoe had discovered that Marjorie designed and made her own jewelry, she insisted Marjorie bring some pieces to sell at the gallery.

  Pleasantly surprised by how well her pieces sold, Marjorie decided to use the extra income to renovate the space above her two-car garage into an apartment for herself. That would give her one more suite with a bath in the big house to rent out during her busy season. Jeff Petrosky had agreed to do the work for her and, except for paint, the space was nearly finished.

  March was doing its lion impersonation this afternoon. The stiff breeze scudded gray clouds across the sky, letting the sun play peek-a-boo. The bay, visible from her dining room windows, was choppy with foamy caps on the swells of the bottle green water.

  Marjorie was ready for spring, and itching to plant some flowers. The weather in Maryland was too fickle to take a chance on the more tender species, but Marjorie thought masses of pansies along the walkway to the front door would cheer up herself as well as passersby.

  She stood at the kitchen counter mulling over paint chips. If she could just make up her mind on a color, after she dropped the jewelry off at Zoe’s place, she’d run over to Easton, pick up a few flats of pansies, and buy some paint. She’d almost made her decision until a ray of sunshine broke through the overcast and fell across the samples. In an instant, the color she’d picked morphed into a dingy green. She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. She was terrible at this. The colors on those little two-by-two-inch squares of paper bore no relationship to the same color on her eight-by-ten-foot wall. She’d learned that the hard way when she repainted her guest rooms.

  The front door opened, then closed with a tad more force than was absolutely necessary. Lance was back from his latest apartment search. She glanced down the hall and noted the dejected slump of his shoulders. “No luck?”

  He shook his head.

  “Want a cup of coffee?”

  Another shake. “No, thanks. I’ll—” He motioned going up to his room.

  “How about a beer?” His startled expression almost made her laugh. Did he view her as a straight-laced old maid? She’d dispel that impression right now. She spread her arms, palms up. “It’s only two in the afternoon. You’ve got plenty of time before you’re due at work.” Yeah, I know your schedule by heart by now. I really shouldn’t pay such close attention to your comings and goings, or your ups and downs.

  He trudged toward the kitchen. “A beer would be great. Thanks.”

  She got a Corona out of the fridge and handed him the icy bottle. He nodded his thanks and took a long swallow, then glanced at the squares spread out on the counter.

  “What’s this?”

  “I’m trying to decide on paint colors for my new apartment.”

  His gaze flashed to her face, both hopeful and questioning. “Oh?”

  She pointed out the kitchen window toward the garage. “Up there. Want to come see?” Oh, no. No, no, no. This is a bad idea. Marjorie bit her lip and winced. And I should have figured that out five seconds ago.

  “Sure.” He shrugged.

  They crossed the yard and climbed the stairs on the outside of the building. The tiny landing at the top barely accommodated both of them as she unlocked the door.

  Lance carefully checked the windows and the locks on the door, inspected the bathroom, and asked if there was another egress point. He actually used the words “egress point.” It gave Marjorie pause. The hopeful expression on the ex-soldier’s face squeezed her heart.

  “It’s a nice place, Marjorie.” He drained the remains of his beer.

  He manages to call me Marjorie instead of ma’am three times out of five by now.

  “Lance, I’ve been renovating this space for myself, to free up another room for guests.” So why did I even offer to show it to you? Because I’m an idiot—and subconsciously I know you need this place more than I do.

  Lance pressed his mouth into a straight line and nodded once. “I understand, ma’am.”

  Another ma’am. Now she really felt like crap. She sighed . . . and capitulated to fate’s quirks. “Would this apartment work for you?”

  His head snapped around so fast she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am.” She couldn’t hide her grin. For a minute she thought he might actually hug her. But . . . no. Damn it. “There is only one more problem.”

  The hope in Lance’s eyes dissolved. “What is that, ma’am?”

  “If you call me ma’am one more time, any possible chance of you renting this space will be gone.”

  The depth of the gratitude in his eyes almost brought tears to hers.

  “Thank you, Marjorie.” He grinned.

  Her heart rate kicked up a notch. Get a grip, woman. Think Mother, or at least older sister. Think anything that can put a stop to those wild ideas lurking under the libido lock-down you’ve had in place for six years. Yeah, but she sure liked the laugh lines that smile put around his eyes, however briefly they erased the wariness that normally resided there.

  Lance wanted to move in right away, so in lieu of a deposit, she asked him for some help around the aging Victorian mansion she called home. First he painted his own space. It had taken him less than a minute to pick one of her paint chips. She’d huffed. Men. Décor decisions—not a problem.

  After he moved in, he did way more in exchange than his deposit should have called for. She wished mightily that he would follow her lead in dress code and wear clothes that obscured his physique. But no. His tight ass, washboard abs, and bulging biceps remained clearly visible while he worked. She tried not to stare, but
she was neither a saint nor an idiot. Okay, maybe an idiot. Why else would she be so attracted to a man who obviously had zero interest in her?

  April 1, 1995

  Corvallis, Oregon

  Sarah Beth studied her reflection and considered how appropriate her April Fool’s Day birthday was. The cruel joke fate had played on her and her identical twin had sent them down very different paths into adulthood.

  Physically, she and Mary Jo both had green eyes and red curly hair. Mary Jo’s skin was still milky white because she never went outside. Sarah Beth’s slightly more ivory complexion had acquired a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks that she had learned to camouflage with artfully applied makeup. She was also taller and much, much, thinner.

  Her father had made good on his threat to abandon them over five years ago. That sent them from their modest three-bedroom rancher in the suburbs to a second-hand trailer in the less affluent—ha—outskirts of Salem. Between after-school jobs and helping her mom with Mary Jo, who had not grown as tall but outweighed her by thirty pounds, Sarah Beth got plenty of exercise.

  Taking care of Mary Jo was a lot of work, but Sarah Beth didn’t mind. Her sister couldn’t do much of anything, really, other than eat, poop, smile, and make sounds that might have been words. The only thing she said that was close to understandable was Mwahjoey, which Sarah Beth felt was her rendition of her own name. Her sister’s sweet smile greeted her every morning and was the last thing she saw when she kissed her good night.

  The scars left from April’s childhood taunts and her father’s desertion made Sarah Beth a very private person. She didn’t make friends at school, and any classmate who made even a slightly disparaging remark about her sister received a smart-mouthed, scathing reply that earned Sarah a reputation for a rapier wit that could slice her enemies to shreds with a few well-chosen words. Most of her classmates didn’t even know she had a sister.