Their Last Second Chance

by Shirley Jump

  “They look like a wonderful family.” Across the way, Melanie spied a pale, thin man talking to Harris while they pulled debris out from the ruins. He kept glancing at his family as he worked. “Is that Mr. Kingston?”

  “Yes. John’s a great guy. Started a barbershop in town. He used to own some kind of company, and it got shut down, so he started all over again, as a barber. I think he used to work for his dad’s barbershop when he was a kid. But starting over is never easy, and I know he’s been heartbroken over losing his company and having to lay all those people off.” Della sighed. “That family has been struggling for so long. And to have this on top of everything else... I’m just glad the town is helping out.”

  Melanie made a mental note to find out more about John Kingston, how he knew Harris and, most of all, why Harris had been there that night. The Kingstons seemed like a nice, normal family. Had it been faulty wiring? A spark from the fireplace? What happened that night?

  The Kingstons didn’t know her at all, and the chances of them opening up to a stranger were slim. Her best route for the information was Harris. Except Harris kept throwing up roadblocks. He’d never been a secretive guy, at least not when she’d known him. Why did this particular event have him clamming up? Was he that uncomfortable with the bona-fide hero part of it?

  To get him to trust her, to open up, meant spending more time alone with him. Which meant trying not to be tempted by him. Even now, watching him across the way, she noticed the muscles rippling under his T-shirt, the way his jeans hugged his long, lean legs. The way his smile caused her belly to flip and tempted her to get closer.

  Jack blew a whistle, announcing lunch for everyone. Melanie jerked her attention away from Harris, then leaned her shovel against a post and walked with Della over to a set of makeshift picnic tables. A rainbow of folding chairs lined the sides.

  Dylan and Abby emerged from Dylan’s truck, with Cody and Jake bringing up the rear. Jake barreled toward his aunt, a little dynamo speeding across the grassy yard. “Aunt Melanie! We came to help!”

  “That’s awesome. We can always use extra help, especially from strong boys like you.” Melanie ruffled his hair. He beamed up at her, all smiles and love, the sweetest little boy she’d ever met.

  “The boys had a half day at school,” Abby said, “and Mavis is handling the community center, so we thought we’d bring some extra hands to help.” She looked past her sister and smiled. “Harris, how nice to see you.”

  “Hi, Abby and crew.” Harris slipped into place beside Melanie as if he belonged there. He shook hands with Dylan and traded small talk with the boys, asking about the community center, the new basketball court Harris had donated, overseeing the installation himself. As he had with Catherine, Harris brushed off the praise and gratitude from Dylan and Cody. “We’re all sitting down for some lunch, courtesy of the amazing culinary skills of Della Barlow, if you guys want to join us.”

  “Can I sit next to you, Aunt Melanie?” Jake asked. “Please?”

  “Of course you can.” She gave him a grin. “You’re my favorite lunch companion in the whole wide world.”

  “Harris, I’ve been practicing my kicking!” Jacob swung his leg back and forth. “Just like you showed me. See?”

  “That’s awesome, buddy.” Harris bent down to Jake’s level and met the little boy’s gaze with a serious, adult face. “You want to keep your place foot, that’s the one that doesn’t kick, right square with the ball. That helps you aim your kick and score a goal.”

  Harris had donated a basketball court? Was teaching her nephew how to play soccer? Who was this man? He’d become some kind of superhero in the years they’d been apart.

  Where was that man when I needed him? The deep ache in her chest, the one she had pushed to the side a thousand times since that day she’d left the clinic, roared to life, choked her throat.

  “Let’s find a seat, Jake,” Melanie said, taking her nephew’s hand and tugging him away from Harris, the new town father/benefactor/saint. As they settled down at the picnic table, Jake climbed into the chair on Melanie’s left, Abby and Dylan sat on the opposite side, and Cody wandered off to sit with some kids he knew. That left Harris, dropping into the seat on her right.

  Close enough that she could still catch the scent of his cologne. See the small patch of stubble he had missed when he shaved this morning. Watch the way his fingers flexed as he poured a glass of lemonade, then handed the pitcher down the table.

  “Melanie? Did you hear me?”

  Melanie drew herself up and focused on her sister. She tucked her sunglasses on top of her head. “Sorry, Abs. I was daydreaming.”

  Abby laughed. “No problem. I was just asking if you had time to go with me to a dress fitting tomorrow morning. We can do the final fitting on my dress and see if yours needs anything.”

  “Sure, that would be great.” She’d ordered her maid of honor dress online and had it shipped to Abby’s house.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to get married.” Abby grinned at Dylan and took his hand. He leaned over and kissed her, with more love in that sweet, short gesture than Melanie had ever seen between two people. Abby held his gaze for a moment, then turned back. “Harris, if you’re still in town, you should come to our wedding. It’s nothing fancy, more of a picnic in the town park kind of thing. We’d love to have you there, especially after all you have done for the town and our boys.”

  Harris glanced at Melanie. For a second, she wanted to tell him no, don’t come. Because being at a wedding meant him asking her to dance, which meant being in his arms, and she already knew that Harris was a very, very good dancer. “I’d love to be there,” he said. “If the maid of honor can promise me one dance.”

  Damn. He’d read her mind. She really needed to start wearing sunglasses more often. Go all mysterious and silent. She slid them back over her eyes.

  Jake saved her from having to answer by tugging on her sleeve. “Aunt Melanie, are you coming to my soccer game? It’s on Saturday. I’m gonna get a goal.”

  “Of course I’ll go, Jake. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  She turned her attention to Jake for the rest of the lunch, but her awareness remained on the man sitting so close to her, she could feel the heat from his body. Harris chatted with Abby and Dylan about the rebuild of the Kingston home, drawing her into the conversation from time to time.

  As soon as Melanie had finished her sandwich, she got to her feet. “I’ve got an interview to go do,” she said to her sister. “I’ll see you for dinner tonight?”

  Abby nodded. “Sounds great. I’m making spaghetti.”

  That elicited a cheer from Jake. Melanie gave her nephew a kiss on the forehead. “Maybe after dinner, we can practice soccer in the backyard, Jake.”

  “Yay! I can practice my kicking more. Did you see me kick? I kicked really hard!” Jake’s enthusiasm bubbled out of him like a volcano. “Can we play with my puppy, too? He’s so funny when I throw the ball.”

  “Sure, whatever you want, kiddo.” Melanie stood there a moment, in awkward silence. “Uh, Harris, I guess I’ll see you later.”

  Her face flushed, and her words stumbled. She’d been unsettled around him ever since she’d seen him with the Kingston kids and Jake. The sentimental side of her kept imagining a future they’d never had.

  Because she’d lost the baby. And Harris had seen her being comforted and assumed the worst about her. She already had a mother who did that. She didn’t need to get involved with a man who did, too.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Harris said. A genuine, warm smile spread across his features. His gaze met hers and held.

  Even long after Melanie had gotten in her car and driven across town to interview Stone Gap’s oldest living resident, that smile lingered on the fringes of her memory. Everything about him did. Damn that man. Once again, Harris McCarthy was screwing up her p
lans for her life.

  Chapter Eight

  Harris grabbed a bottle of beer out of the fridge, then headed down the hall of the inn. The long day clearing away the wreckage had drawn to a close when the sun set and working on the site became too dangerous. Harris had gone back to his room and set to work ordering plywood, insulation and windows and scheduling a concrete pour. His attention wandered a thousand times.

  Probably because he’d been listening for Mellie’s steps in the hallway. She must have stayed late after dinner at her sister’s house, because the clock ticked past ten and she still hadn’t come back to the inn. Finally, he’d given up on his work and gone downstairs to enjoy the evening air. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

  Mavis was asleep in the back bedroom of the inn, and the other guests had checked out earlier today, leaving the building mostly empty. So when the front door finally opened a little after ten thirty, Harris’s heart skipped a beat.

  Why did he torture himself like this? They had ended things long ago, and each of them had a life in a different state, a different world. And yet sometimes, the part of him that remembered an impatient, more immature self at eighteen thought perhaps the past could be rewritten. Lord knew he’d made enough mistakes in his younger years—and a few as an adult—that he would do over if he could. He’d been given a chance to fix things with Mellie—could he really let that opportunity go?

  He turned and saw Mellie in the doorway. Her gaze caught his, and for a second, he worried she would go straight to bed and not talk to him. She leaned toward the stairs, as if she’d decided to avoid him.

  “Want a beer?” he said, too fast. “And then you can tell me the secrets to long life. You interviewed the town’s oldest living resident, right? I’d love to hear about it.”

  Too much? Too desperate? Too insane? Damn. What was it with this woman, that all his thoughts became a jumbled mess whenever she was around? He forgot about the past, forgot about their broken history, and couldn’t think about anything other than being with her.

  Mellie came down the hall, depositing her purse and notepad on the hall table. She looked tired, as if the long day had had more challenges than just an interview and a family dinner. “I’d love a beer.”

  He headed into the kitchen, grabbed a second one, opened it and handed it to her. She took a long drink, then gestured toward the back porch. They went outside and sank into the twin Adirondack chairs.

  “Cheers,” she said and clinked her bottle with his. The faint chitter of crickets came from the shrubs. Mellie sipped her beer, and the tension in her shoulders relaxed by degrees. “So, did you guys get a lot of work done on the house?”

  “More than I expected. All the demo is done, and tomorrow we get to start building.” He’d pushed the town commissioners to do a rush approval on the plans. A generous donation to help build a new ballfield in town had helped move that along. Harris knew he’d have to make up all these expenses down the road, but he lived pretty inexpensively in a humble apartment, and kept his business costs low just so he could do things like this.

  In the end, the money meant a family would have a home in a few weeks, instead of cramming into a motel room or a relative’s basement for months. It had been a chaotic day, but the Barlow brothers had kept the project under control.

  Dozens of Stone Gap residents had been there yesterday from sunup to sundown, working until it got too dark. John and his family had only been residents for a few years, and yet the town embraced them like long-lost cousins. For a second, Harris wondered what it would be like to make this town his permanent home. The idea appealed quite a bit.

  Could he set up a home base here? And still complete the mission he’d had in his heart ever since he quit working for his father? Could he finally, after John’s house was complete, give himself a moment to live his own life, and still make reparations to the lives he had ruined? Deep questions for a dark night, and questions he couldn’t answer.

  “I talked with Della about having a fund-raiser on Saturday to make enough money for all the rest of the things the family is going to need—clothes, furniture, dishes,” Harris said. “We’re thinking of having a barbecue here at the inn.”

  “That sounds like fun.” Mellie rested her feet on the edge of her chair and sank down a little. “I can see if Saul wants me to write up something about it for the paper. I’ll talk to him tomorrow when I turn in my story.”

  “Do you still write everything in longhand first?” Back in high school, Mellie had kept yellow legal pads everywhere—in her backpack, on her nightstand, in the kitchen, pretty much wherever she went. He was always finding them scattered in her wake, her handwriting, neat and tight, flowing across the page with words and ideas and imagination.

  She turned and smiled at him. “I do. I know it’s probably a huge waste of time, but my brain just connects with the words better that way. At least on the stories that matter.”

  “And which ones are those?”

  “Not the ones about kale salad and thin thighs. Those I always wrote on the computer. I still have a stack of legal pads that are blank and waiting for something with substance.” She picked at the label of the beer bottle, peeling it away in one long strip. “I went to work at that magazine, hoping I could write some things with depth. I did one piece on college graduates that had some meat to it. I hoped they’d let me write more like it, but then they hired a new editorial director, and we went to more fluff and less substance.”

  The Mellie he remembered wouldn’t have been much about fluff. She may have been bold and adventurous—and he had loved that part of her when he still lived under his father’s thumb—but she hadn’t been the kind that cared about having her clothes make a statement. She’d never worried about wearing the most fashionable jeans or having the right color eye shadow. “Well, either way, your sister is proud as hell of you. Every time I talk to her, it’s all she talks about.”

  Mellie scoffed. “If she only knew.” The words were a whisper under her breath. Harris wasn’t even sure Mellie meant to speak them aloud.

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head. Picked at the beer label. Avoided his gaze.

  “Mellie...” He waited until she lifted her gaze to his. “Talk to me.”

  A long moment passed. The weight that had lifted from her shoulders returned. She took a long sip of the beer, then let out a sigh. “I lost my job at the magazine and never told my family.”

  “You did? When?”

  “A year ago. Around the same time as my divorce.” She laid a strip of label on the arm of the chair, then started in on the next section. “I started arguing that the magazine needed to run stories with more substance. In response, the new editorial director said I didn’t fit the direction of the magazine anymore, and she let me go.”

  Mellie had a lovely writing style, with a light touch that brought life to her essays, papers or short stories. How could anyone fail to see the value of her and her skills? “Did you move on to another magazine? One that would appreciate your talent?”

  She scoffed. “Writing about diets and moisturizers isn’t exactly a prestigious résumé. And in a city like New York, there are millions of writers. I took on some freelancing work and lived off my savings, and, well, now I’m here, working for the Stone Gap Gazette, at least for a little while. Maybe doing that can build up my résumé a bit in other areas—and help my bank balance at the same time.”

  Mellie had to be in bad financial shape if she was taking on a job while she was on vacation. Harris wondered if he had any contacts he could call, maybe help her find a new job. Except he was in the construction industry, which was about as far from writing as a person could get. He hated not being able to help her, though.

  She took another sip, then set the bottle beside the curled paper. “Either way, I don’t think profiling the town’s oldest resident is going to g
et me into a prestigious paper or magazine, but it’s a start.”

  “And it’s better than writing about miracle weight-loss techniques, right?” He grinned, but she didn’t return his smile.

  “Yeah.” Mellie let out a sigh, then got to her feet and leaned against the railing. She turned away from him and faced the dark expanse of lawn and lake, a landscape that seemed to disappear into nothing. “I’m glad you left your dad’s practice and went after your dreams, Harris. I wonder sometimes if I’m still trying to find mine.”

  The soft, vulnerable admission drew him to her side. He didn’t touch her, just filled the space on her right. “Maybe you just got a little off track, Mellie. You’re an amazing writer, and I think you still have some great stories to tell.”

  She shrugged.

  His arms ached to hold her, to draw her into his chest like he used to do, and to inhale the sweet fragrance of her perfume. To ease the stress in her eyes and make everything better. “You know, I read those pieces about the first year in New York for those women college graduates.”

  She turned to him, her face lit with surprise. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, because it kind of seems like stalking to google your ex-girlfriend.” A whip-poor-will called out in the night air, the familiar song sounding lonely and distant. Harris knew that feeling. All these years he had been estranged from his family, on a one-man quest to set things right again with the people his father had hurt. The only woman he’d ever truly felt at home with was standing right in front of him, but she might as well have been a million miles away. “When I first saw you again, I was curious. So I looked up what you’d been writing, and I came across that series of articles. It was beautiful, Mellie. Heartfelt and honest and heartbreaking, all at the same time.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not the kind of thing editors want from me.”

  He touched her jaw, met her gaze. “One editor. Not all editors. You’re a wonderful writer, Mellie, when you trust yourself.”