SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION

by ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA®

  “Please take your seat, Mr. Sheehan,” Señora Mendoza commanded.

  Nate grimaced. “Sí, Señora.” A strawberry blush bloomed across his freckles. He pivoted like a menswear model during Fashion Week and strode with haughty grace across the classroom.

  “Work it!” a jerk-face in the row to my right catcalled. The plus-sized Goth girl seated behind the boy finger-flicked his head. “Ow!” He rubbed the spot as he swung about and glared at the Goth. Señora Mendoza rapped her yardstick against the linoleum floor. The boy startled and faced forward.

  I slid into my seat and stowed my phone in my messenger bag. The thud of my textbook sounded overly loud as it slipped through my fingers and landed on my desk. My knees drew together. I countered my inclination to slump and hide behind my hair. “No matter what,” my paternal grandmother often reminded me, “a Saint James does not acknowledge adversity or embarrassment. We ride above it.” Well, maybe not Dad.

  Throughout Spanish, I kept my gaze locked on Señora Mendoza or stared at my primer. My heels bounced as I discharged nervous energy through my toes.

  Toward the end of class, Señora called on Nate. He shot me a sideways glance from across the room. My stomach looped. Then Nate answered her question in flawless Spanish. Señora’s expression morphed from arched brow surprise to pleasure. The tension seeped out of my shoulders. Well played, Nate.

  Five minutes before the bell, while Señora wrote tomorrow’s assignment on the board, Goth girl pitched a folded note onto my desk. As I swept it into my jacket pocket, Señora whirled around and scanned the class. I avoided eye contact and copied the assignment in my notebook. The bell shrilled. I packed my messenger bag and surreptitiously read the note.

  Lunch? Same spot as yesterday? Nate.

  A montage of lunches with my friends at my old school cycled through my mind. A tsunami of hurt crashed over me, followed by a tidal wave of doubt. How will I make new friends when my Haylee persona is a lie? Maybe the alias had been a mistake. I had thought a fresh name would give me space, help me hide until the scandal passed. Instead, it paralyzed me.

  Guilt twisted my insides. I couldn’t go backward or forward. And the only person throwing me a lifeline was the boy who had driven me crazy in elementary school. How long could I maintain the fraud? I glanced at the students threading out the door. What would happen if word leaked? My insides twisted.

  Nate sat sideways in his seat, making deliberate work of zipping up his backpack. He glanced up at me. My insides shivered. I broke eye contact and rose, hoisting my messenger bag against my chest like a battle shield. I half hoped Nate would rush up behind me and tug my hair. Instead, his wounded stare followed me out the door.

  Later, when the lunch bell sounded at the end of English Three Honors, remorse surfed through me. Part of me longed to head for the boulder and see if Nate would show up. Maybe I should come clean. Apologize.

  I decided to hide out in the library.

  At a corner far from the librarian’s watchful eye, I laid my messenger bag on the table and unpacked my dill pickle spear and peanut butter and boysenberry jam on rye. A quick check of my phone yielded a text from my mother, wishing me a great day. You, too, I texted back. It couldn’t be fun for her meeting with lawyers and financial planners, sorting through the debris field left by Dad’s death. I wondered if any of Mom’s friends had stuck by her.

  After Dad’s accident, I had boycotted the reading of his will. It didn’t matter what it said. I could tell by Mom’s tight expression; the company was in trouble. We were in trouble. Mom had said, “I’ll worry about the finances. You concentrate on school. Junior year is the make-or-break-it year for college.”

  Focus on school. Pretend the old me never existed. No more playing hooky with Dad when the winds and tide called to us. Time to get serious.

  I blinked back the sudden tears and surge of anger.

  I pushed my messenger bag aside. A small stack of magazines someone had left on the table tipped over the edge and dived onto the dusky blue carpet with a loud slap. Great. Kneeling, I skimmed the covers as I retrieved them. My pulse ricocheted. Someone had pulled the only three magazines containing photos of me. I double-checked the front covers and text. Yes. Yes. And yes. Holding the magazines to my chest, I scanned the library. Most students were in the cafeteria or the quad. But several, mostly loners and a few groups of two or three, had taken refuge in the library. None glanced my way.

  I sank onto the hard wooden chair. Statistically, no way could this be random. I flipped open the top magazine to the five-page feature “Nouveau Riche Teens Practice Noblesse Oblige.” The concept had been to feature wealthy teens volunteering for their favorite charity. I always wondered who had tipped them off about the First Saturday of the Month Club. I thought I had blended in—just another volunteer swinging a hammer or wielding a paintbrush.

  “You must do it!” the editor on the phone cajoled. “Here’s your chance to inspire other teens—other girls! Think of how many more homes will be rehabbed; how many families you’ll help.”

  I bit my lip and flipped the pages a second time. Pop star. Famous athlete’s son … and … this time I saw it, the ragged edge where someone had torn out my photo.

  My heart accelerated. I checked the next magazine. The bohemian fashion shoot at Joshua Tree National Park should be on page eighty-one. Seventy-nine. Eighty. Eighty-five. This time, the page tears were hardly visible. Sick fear drained the blood from my cheeks. My mind flashed to television shows where the police discovered an apartment where the stalker had plastered photos of his prey.

  With dread rising like high tide, I reached for the last magazine.

  “Haylee?”

  Startled, I whirled toward Nate’s voice. He emerged from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, his hands raised like two stop signs. “I swear, I’m not stalking you. I thought you’d be in the quad.” His copper brows knitted together. “You okay?”

  My chest caved. “I’m fine.” I placed the magazine on top of the others and pushed away the stack as though signaling a waiter to clear the table.

  Nate angled his head as he studied the top cover. “‘Tangerine: Fall’s Hot New Hue.’ Whoa. Totally not your color.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I sniffed and drew the side of my forefingers across the thin skin beneath my lower eyelashes. “Good thing the issue is a year old.” I eyed Nate. He acted innocent enough. But if he hadn’t ferreted out the magazines, then who had? The flesh on my forearms bristled. My gaze swept the library. No overt paparazzi, tabloid spies, or stalkers. I kicked at the chair beside me in a quasi-invitation. “Sorry, I didn’t answer your note.”

  “Hey. No problem.” He averted his eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, bye.” He pivoted toward the nonfiction section.

  “Wait.” I grabbed his hand. Nate stiffened. His fingers twitched indecisively. I released him. “I was in a bad space earlier.” My chest corseted at the thought of my so-called friends.

  “And now?”

  My right shoulder lifted then fell in a shrug. “Still not great.”

  Nate’s gaze drifted from my eyes, south to the magazines, then bounced north again. A long, slow whistle escaped his mouth. “Tell me his name. I know people. People who own baseball bats.”

  “I bet you do. Not.” My lips curved upward. “Besides, ‘his’ name is Bailey, Sarah, and Cheyenne.”

  He pulled out the chair and sat. “You’re having trouble with a trio of drag queens?”

  “No.” I swatted his arm. His triceps hardened beneath his hoodie jacket.

  “Good.” Nate grabbed half my sandwich and took an alligator bite.

  “Hey!”

  He chewed for about twenty seconds, swallowed, then wiped his mouth with his hand. “You busy Saturday?”

  “Yes, it’s the first Saturday of the month.”

  He eyed my pickle. “What happe
ns on the first Saturday—?”

  The school bell drowned out the rest of his sentence. We scrambled to our feet. Five minutes to fight the throngs and push our way to class. I handed him the pickle, gathered up the rest of my stuff, and we hustled to the hall.

  “Where are you headed?” Nate asked.

  “Right. Pre-Calculus. You?”

  “Left. Physics.” He flicked his hair out of his eyes. “About Saturday—”

  “Sorry!” A river of students swept me away. I glanced back once and caught sight of Nate’s fire-god hair as he strode off. His head swiveled as if he sensed my gaze. His lips parted. Deep in my core, a tug connected us.

  A purple backpack slammed my arm, knocking me into a cheerleader. “Watch where you’re going!” she warned.

  “Sorry.” I hugged my messenger bag to my waist. I couldn’t afford to antagonize anyone; at least not until I figured out who had stolen the magazine pictures, and why.

  The headlines from my nightmares bobbed in my mind. Had Nate’s father been one of the tradesmen burned by Dad’s pullout of the Solstice Sunrise development?

  My lunch curdled.

  NATE WAS ABSENT FOR three days. Three. Days. This shouldn’t have been my first thought upon waking Saturday morning, but it floated to the surface, and I couldn’t ignore it. Was he sick? Had his parents wigged out and returned to Indiana? Maybe he had transferred to the high school across town?

  Throwing off the covers, I considered tracking down his phone number. My private high school had a student directory. Maybe public schools had them, too. Heading to the bathroom, I resolved to check my new student packet when I returned from the build out. Or rehab. I wasn’t sure if we’d be building affordable housing or rehabbing an existing home. There had probably been an email I should have read.

  The First Saturday of the Month Club met in the parking lot of the Presbyterian Church on Amador Avenue. I had dressed to work, layering an old hoodie over a blue and black plaid shirt I had bought at a discount store. I wore my oldest pair of jeans and paint-splattered low-tops. Normally, I’d sling on the leather tool belt Dad had given me. But I couldn’t. Maybe next month I’d be ready.

  By the time Mom dropped me off, ten of the twenty or so regulars were already grouped next to the two work vans. They stared at me over their plastic-lidded coffees, their expressions welcoming, but unsure. My steps faltered.

  “Sailor?” Wendy, one of the middle-aged women broke from the group. “We didn’t recognize you! What did you do to your hair?”

  The pressure in my chest eased. “I’m incognito,” I confessed.

  Wendy wrapped her arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the others. “We’ve missed you the past few months.”

  “Thank you for the flowers and card.” My voice caught. None of the volunteers knew the Saint James Family Charitable Trust paid for most of the building supplies. We had kept the grants anonymous so I would be treated like any other volunteer. The trust had been formed when we were multimillionaires, before the housing market crashed. Before, if the tabloids were to be believed, bankruptcy loomed.

  “What about the charitable trust?” I asked Mom when she told me we’d have to sell our house. “Can’t we use some of that money?”

  Mom shook her head. “We can’t touch it. Not for our personal use. We can only request grants for others in need. But that’s huge, right?

  “Project 114.” Wendy gave my shoulders a final squeeze before releasing me. “Bless our anonymous sponsor!”

  “Yes.” My eyes watered. It was huge.

  “It’s good to have you back.” Robert Ludlow, who everyone called Gramps, patted the top of my head. “Perfect timing, too. You’re going to love the house we’ll be rehabbing.”

  “Awesome.” It had been a while since I had loved anything.

  “This one is an interesting case,” Wendy said. “A foreclosure that somehow slipped through the proverbial cracks. Several neighbors wrote asking us to help the new owners, a down-on-their-luck family.”

  Gramps checked his cellphone. “Time to roll, people. The advance team is on the site. The second van will grab the stragglers.”

  Someone slid open the door of the nearest van. I found a spot on the hard bench seat, buckled up, and closed my eyes. Nate’s face flashed in my mind. My stomach looped.

  The worst part was leaving my secret crush.

  The corners of my lips ticked upward.

  “SAILOR, WE’RE HERE.” A cool hand shook my shoulder.

  “What?” I struggled up from the dream. Dad and I had been on a sailboat, but it wasn’t our boat. The name Solstice Sunrise had been painted on the transom.

  “Come see the house.” Wendy pointed out the open van door.

  My seatbelt unbuckled with a click. A cool breeze tinged with salt and low tide smells gusted into the van. The sea. Love and longing chased by grief and anxiety surfed through me.

  Wendy’s thrilled expression collapsed. “Oh, no! Sailor, I’m so sorry. Gramps should have warned you. I imagine you haven’t been near the water since …”

  “No. I haven’t.” The words came out strangled. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Wendy bit her lip. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.” A Saint James does not acknowledge kicked-in-the-heart pain. Wendy moved aside, and I crawled out of the van. Seagulls cruising the cloudy September sky greeted me with their shrill squeals. My gaze dropped to the sandy path, half hidden by overgrown ice plants. No. It can’t be.

  “Do you know this house?” Gramps asked.

  “Yes.” I followed the trail to the rambling two-story Victorian. The cornflower paint with cream trim had flaked around the tri-windows facing the bay and near the front porch downspout. A riptide grabbed my insides. Screens had been torn from the first story windows and hurled into the ornamental grasses bordering the narrow lawn. Plywood covered three windows. Scanning to the right, I noticed the advance crew had left the front door open to the elements.

  I barely registered the second van’s arrival and the appreciative chatter of its occupants as they disgorged from the vehicle. My gaze swept the Victorian. “Where is she?”

  “Who, dear?” Wendy asked.

  “The mermaid.”

  Behind me, footsteps crunched across the sand that had blown onto the asphalt. The sound halted, and the familiar scent of mandarin, spice, and a hint of musk wafted over me. My heart quaked.

  “You can’t see her from this angle,” Nate whispered in my ear. “We’ll have to go inside.”

  I shifted, and my arm brushed his. Body heat escaped the thick fleece of his hoodie jacket. His complexion paled beneath his freckles, except for the fever blooming high on his cheeks. He squinted, as though the early sunlight hurt his eyes.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He exhaled through his nose and copied my one-shoulder shrug—so no. We trudged up the path, side by side. I dropped behind when the ice plant forced us to walk single file.

  Nate stopped at the edge of the lawn. “We lost the house during the recession,” he confessed. “We moved to Indiana to live with my grandmother.”

  I pressed my fingertips to my brow as if I could stem the flow of unwanted thoughts. “This was my family’s fault, wasn’t it? Because Dad pulled out of Solstice Sunrise—” I clapped my hand over my mouth.

  Wendy and Gramps caught up with us. “Everything all right here?” Gramps narrowed his eyes at Nate.

  I lowered my hand. “It’s okay, Gramps. Nate’s an old friend.”

  Gramps crossed his arms over his chest and scrutinized us. Other volunteers began gathering up the broken window screens.

  “Let’s leave them to talk.” Wendy nudged Gramps.

  “See you inside,” Gramps said.

  “Yes, sir,” Nate replied.

  After they left, I sa
id, “I’m so—”

  Nate pressed his finger to my lips. “Too many people around.”

  My lips tingled. I glanced at the men setting up ladders and the group collecting the screens. “Okay.”

  Nate faced the house and squared his shoulders. “Let’s see if the squatters found our secret room.”

  Our secret room. But I had only been there once. I slipped my arm through his. We mounted the white porch steps together. Nate paused and patted the railing before striding to the front door and crossing the threshold. In the foyer, his shoulders sagged as he exhaled a long breath. Thieves had stripped away the brass and etched glass wall sconces, leaving exposed wires. I blinked at the wall where the door to the library had been. “It’s gone.”

  “No.” Nate swiped his forearm across his eyes. “It’s concealed. When you were here, the library door was open, so you didn’t notice.”

  “Great. How many secret rooms are in this place?”

  “Just two that I know of.”

  I blocked him with my hand. “Don’t help me. I can do this.” I studied the floor-to-ceiling wallpaper. The silver-blue damask contained a repeated cream floral design. I closed my eyes and filtered out the volunteers’ voices, the sharp scent of wet paint as cans were opened, and the thoo-ump, thoo-ump, thoo-ump of a nail gun. I am Haylee Birch, a member of the mermaid club. Show me the way in.

  Nothing.

  I sensed Nate watching me. I pushed up my sleeves. “I am Sailor Saint James, a member of the mermaid club. Show me the way in.”

  A salty sea breeze gusted through the open front door. Opening my eyes, I noticed the library wall had once held two sconces, about two-and-a-half feet apart, while the opposing wall had only one. Stepping closer, I searched the wallpaper for a seam. Once I found it, I followed it to a discolored area the width of two fingers and pressed. The hidden door released with a satisfying click.

  Nate beamed. “Good job.”

  “Thanks.” I gripped the edge of the door with my fingertips and pulled it toward me. Mustiness assaulted my nose.