A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET

by Lewis, Laurie

  “Pretty sick.” John leaned over and picked fallen maple seedpods—helicopters—from the area around his feet, stalling the true answer. “Short of a miracle, I guess I’m dying.”

  That declaration brought Noah’s eyes up to meet his uncle’s. He felt his wall give a little. “Is . . . it cancer?”

  John nodded. “Prostate.” In aggravation, he threw the entire handful of pods into the air and watched as they whirled back to the ground. “At least that’s where it started. I ignored the signs. I was stubborn. I don’t suppose that’s any surprise.” A sad chuckle escaped his lips. “What I’ve done to Sarah is far worse than what I’ve done to myself. Dying is hard, but watching someone you love die is even harder. And knowing that all this suffering might have been prevented? It makes it so much worse.”

  John stared at his hands and shook his head. “You never think something like this will happen to you. Staring mortality down changes a person, enrolls them in a rather exclusive academy of higher understanding. You appreciate things you once took for granted and cherish people until the thought of them makes your heart literally ache. It’s a divine, final tutorial.”

  The conversation seemed to fatigue him. He sighed. “I wish I could say this new understanding has completely changed my nature. The truth is, some days I’m a more bitter cuss than I was before because I’m so angry at myself, but I’m even coming to terms with that. I realize that everybody gets a ‘something’ in this life—a challenge, a hurdle, that makes you stretch, grow, and become better, I guess. Some people, like you, get their something early on and then triumph over it. Others get a challenge that stays with them every day of their life. My life was charmed until now. I took that for granted. Now I guess I’m what you’d call a late bloomer.” A few sad chuckles quickly faded into a morose sigh. “I pray you and Sarah will be able to forgive me.”

  Noah returned to the bench and sat next to his uncle. “You don’t need my forgiveness.”

  “Yes I do, but not until you’re ready to give it, and not until I understand what else happened to you that night. I know there’s more you’re not telling me.”

  Noah was still too vulnerable to discuss that, so he ignored the prompt. “How did you manage to find me? I’ve been wondering that.”

  Uncle John smiled. “Your cousin Sam is really the one who found you. I knew your passenger that night was an Amish girl. Sam called a friend who sells woodcraft at the Amish market where she worked. That fellow remembered the younger women chattering about letters arriving for her from Myrtle Beach soon after you ran away. It was our only lead but it finally paid off.”

  A soft huff preceded Noah’s sad smile. “Her name was Esther . . .” Then he flinched at Uncle John’s interest, deflecting the question he saw in his uncle’s eyes. “How did the cop end up at my door with a note from you?”

  “The officer felt he owed Sam a favor for saving his son’s life after he was mugged in Times Square. Since he lived in Myrtle Beach, Sammy asked him to find you.”

  The effort his uncle had gone to softened Noah a few more degrees. He shook his head, disbelieving. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about than our old history. It’s time for you to let go of your guilt.”

  “This isn’t about guilt anymore. It’s about gratitude—paying it back. Everyone needs a little help sometimes. Even me. Mine came when I was twelve. I asked a man at a Christmas tree lot to let me work for him in exchange for a tree. He ended up taking me under his wing and teaching me the nursery business.” John smiled. “My parents taught me to work, but someone gave me a chance. I know you don’t need my help now, but we need help, and maybe you’ll be open to an . . . opportunity.”

  “You want to give me a job?”

  “I want to show you some possibilities . . . if you’ll trust me.”

  Noah stared at his hands as if the answer lay there.

  “I know you have no reason to trust or love me, Noah, but—”

  Noah quickly interrupted with, “Why do you say that?”

  Noah’s irritation had clearly startled John. “I just thought . . . I mean I haven’t really given you much reason.”

  Noah reached into his pocket and withdrew an item, concealed within his palm. His thumb rolled over it for several seconds as he debated whether to share it. After a moment, his closed fist slipped in front of John and opened, revealing a silver-plated lighter. He studied John’s reaction to the item and said, “Do you recognize it?”

  The crease between Uncle John’s eyes deepened as he studied the object. He began to shake his head in defeat, and then paused, saying suddenly, “That’s the Grange insignia. The Frederick County chapter gave it to me for twenty years of service.” Confusion still showed on his face.

  “You don’t remember giving it to me, do you?” Noah put it away.

  “Wait, wait . . . I remember. I made a sled run for you. We built a fire in the snow.”

  “That’s when I was eight. Your kids were grown. You did that just for me.” An ever-so-slight smile revealed Noah’s pleasure. “But this lighter is actually from the summer I was ten. My mom and I came to the farm to help Aunt Sarah after her gall bladder surgery. Duey smacked Mom around pretty badly before we left. While Mom helped with the housework, Aunt Sarah helped Mom figure things out. You were worried about me, so you took me for a ride. We ended up in Virginia and ate at McDonald’s. It was my first time.”

  “Your first time at McDonald’s?”

  Noah nodded. “And my first time in Virginia. After lunch we stopped by some warehouse where they sold fireworks, and—”

  “Rockets. We bought a box full of rockets.”

  Noah’s lip curled into a lopsided grin. “That’s right. My legs were nearly numb from the weight of that box on my lap, but I wanted to carry it all the way home. When we reached the farm, you had Aunt Sarah pack us a picnic. We set up our chairs, built a fire, and roasted hot dogs. Then we set off every one of those rockets. You let me light some, and at the end you let me keep the lighter.” His voice grew subdued. “It was the best day of my life.”

  “You should have had many much better days.”

  Prickles rushed over Noah’s skin. “I have something for you.” He rose with an awkward immediacy and jogged to his motorcycle, returning with the parcel that had been tied to the luggage carrier. With a reticent smile, he jutted the package at John. “It’s not much. It reminded me of that day.”

  John struggled with the parcel’s bindings, but after a moment, he pulled out a knife, cut the cord, and returned the knife to his pocket. Noah stepped back and waited as John peeled the paper away, revealing a framed print of a silhouetted Statue of Liberty against a backdrop of exploding rockets.

  Uncle John’s eyes first fell on the image but then drifted to the hand-carved frame. His fingers traced the repeating pattern cut into the dark wood—intricate flags with stars and stripes that were linked together with a carved rope. “It’s exquisite, Noah. Thank you. Did you . . . make this frame?”

  Noah nodded and began to point out the errors, but John jumped in to silence him. “This is a piece of art in and of itself, Noah. It’s magnificent. Now I know you’re meant to be here.”

  “Because of a frame?”

  “For so many reasons. Once I get you to the farm, you’ll understand. In the meantime, I have a few favors to ask of you if you’ll agree to stay.”

  Noah’s head cocked slightly.

  “I’m closing the nursery down. I made a few calls this morning, sold all my inventory to other nurseries, and found new positions for everyone except Marty, who I’ve asked to stay on to keep up the farm.”

  “You’re giving up?”

  “No, I’m looking for that miracle. But just in case—or regardless—I want to right my mistakes with you, with my kids, with Sarah, and with God while I ask for His help. I want to do everything in my power to rest and get well. I also want to spend every possible minute with Sarah. For a work-and-worry-aholic, that means shutting down the
business, at least for a while.”

  “Then why do you need me?”

  “Sarah and I both need you, and so does someone else we know.”

  Noah looked John squarely in the eye. “You’re expecting too much from me. You say dying has taught you some lessons. Well, failure has taught me a few too. I don’t want people to depend on me, and I don’t take on projects if I can’t succeed.”

  “You’ll succeed just by coming back and trying.” Uncle John looked Noah in the eyes, unwavering as he waited for an answer.

  Noah squeezed the bridge of his nose, eyes shut against the tension. Then he blew out the pressure in a rush of air. “All right. I’ll try.”

  Chapter 6

  Noah moved in that evening, bringing only what he had carried on his motorcycle. He needed little, and what he didn’t bring could be replaced. His construction supervisor agreed to his request for a leave of absence to care for an ailing family member, and the Laundromat’s owner placed the rest of his few worldly possessions in the facility’s storage room.

  Once again, Sarah forgot about his discomfort with physical touch, opening her arms to hug him as he entered. Once again, Noah stepped back, offering an awkward dip of his head instead, causing her to rein in her effusive greeting.

  The next morning, Noah debated skipping the uncomfortable, stilted-conversation breakfasts that had been dished up each morning during his previous employment at the farm, but the delicious aromas of Aunt Sarah’s cooking weakened his resolve. As his foot hit the landing, he turned for the kitchen and peered around the corner at the feast filling several platters.

  “Good morning.” Sarah offered him a warm smile as her extended hand tempted him with a sample of the morning’s offerings—a hot biscuit slathered with butter and what he assumed was a sampling of Aunt Sarah’s famous strawberry freezer jam.

  Noah dipped his head shyly, dropping a few dark strands across his eyes. One hand accepted the gift while the other patted his stomach. “Best in town, as I recall.”

  “We’ll have to go berry picking next month and make some more,” Sarah said as she pointed to the table, where John sat smiling his own welcome. John blessed the food, something Noah couldn’t remember him doing previously, except on holidays. Sarah served, and John laid out the day’s to-do list as they ate. A phone call pulled Sarah from the meal. When she returned, she set her elbows on the table and leaned toward Noah.

  “John told me you’re a carpenter. I have a friend, an older woman named Agnes. She lives on the adjacent farm, a rickety old place, and her door is sticking. Would you mind taking a look at it for me?”

  Noah swallowed and deferred to his Uncle.

  John folded his paper and placed his hands on the table to support his effort to stand. A tight-jawed grunt and two nearly inaudible moans were proof of his efforts to conceal his pain, Noah also rose, offering his proud uncle a hand. Stable now, John gently shook him off. After a long steadying breath, John said, “I could use you for an hour or so, but then you’re free to go with Sarah.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Sarah, whose forced calm could not hide her worry. “We’ll leave around ten, then. Noah, I should warn you, Agnes has some problems with her memory, and it makes her a bit cranky. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

  The unexpected joke swept the tension from the room, and Noah and Uncle John reached the door in a more companionable mood. Uncle John gestured toward the tool barn.

  “That frame of yours was beautiful,” John began. “You understand and appreciate the beauty of wood. You’d make a good nurseryman, but I know that’s not where your interests lie.” John unlocked the latch and grasped the door handle, groaning from the effort required to open the large door. He reached inside and flipped a switch. The flood of light revealed walls laden with hand tools and tables lined with saws and power tools. A freshly swept path led to yet another door. John opened the door and pulled a cord attached to a light socket with a bare bulb. Once it was lit, he moved back, allowing Noah an unencumbered view of the room’s contents.

  Noah sighed with wonder, then blushed red as he realized it was audible, but his excitement quickly overcame his restraint. A large worktable lined the far wall. Beneath it was a cabinet that held a dozen or so drawers, and above it, suspended on pegs, were vintage woodworking tools. In the center of the room sat an old Shopsmith, a combo woodworking machine, circa 1950s he figured, but in pristine condition.

  “Have you ever seen one of these?”

  “On our construction sites, but I’ve never seen one so old and well kept.” He moved to it and studied the gunmetal gray castings and the thick rods upon which the various components slid. “Marty always told me this was your workshop, but I had no idea this was here.”

  “She can do it all. She’s a lathe, sander, joiner, vice, and a few things I can’t remember. Those castings are iron, not aluminum. She weighs a ton.”

  “I bet she does. Where did you find her?”

  “She belonged to your grandfather.”

  Noah’s head jerked John’s way. “My grandfather?”

  “Grandpa Anderson. He was your mother’s father too, you know.”

  The logic of the answer still didn’t seem real. “But I thought he was a dockworker.”

  John moved to a stool in the room and winced as he eased himself down. “He ran the workshop on the docks, but this was his real love. I always intended to make Sarah something nice. I just never found the time.” The phrase was thick with regret. “This is why I knew you were meant to be here. It’s yours to use whenever you want.”

  “Really?” Noah could scarcely believe what he was hearing. His hand moved reverently over the machine. “Thank you,” he murmured softly. “Thank you very much.”

  “I arranged for a load of hardwood boards to be delivered this afternoon—some cherry, some walnut, a little oak . . . you know, some material for you to start working with. I plan to speak to the owner of the art gallery on Main Street. I’m sure he’d be interested in seeing some of your work. If he likes it, he’ll buy your frames. I can also introduce you to a man who owns a handmade table shop. You can make a few things and see if he’ll sell them on consignment, or I could arrange for you to intern there.”

  John seemed to notice Noah’s silence, and he also quieted. “I’m sorry. I’m overwhelming you. I don’t mean to push. We’ll do whatever you’d like.”

  Noah wondered if he was dreaming. “Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

  John rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Open that center drawer over there.”

  Noah opened the worn, wooden drawer and withdrew a suede bundle. John gestured for him to lay it on the table and open it. Leather bindings held it closed, and once Noah untied them and unrolled the parcel he saw that it was constructed of pockets that each held different woodworking tools. Knives and chisels of various widths caught the light and gleamed, attesting to the care paid to each. The base of each ended in exquisitely polished cherry handles. Noah knew this was the set of a master craftsman. “They’re beautiful,” he said, finally unembarrassed by the reverence in his voice.

  “They’re yours.”

  Again, Noah’s head jerked John’s way. “I couldn’t. They’re heirlooms.”

  “You’re the only woodworker in the family, and I think it would please my father to know one of his grandsons was carrying on a skill he loved. I want you to have them.”

  The men made only fleeting eye contact at this comment. They’d been speaking more to the floor than to each other. Noah felt his throat grow tight. “I don’t know what to say. I’m honored.”

  John labored to stand, resting against the machine until his legs steadied. This time Noah couldn’t resist the urge to step in with support.

  “Thank you. I do all right on the straightaways. It’s the getting up and down that wears me out.” He took a test step and nodded that he was all right. Noah let go, and then John placed an affectionate hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Y
ou’re a good and gifted man, Noah. Every time you use these tools remember where you got that gift. It’s in your blood. My kids don’t have an exclusive claim on this family. Yours is just as real. You remember that.”

  John exited, but the words continued to resound in Noah’s heart, poking a hole in the self-doubt that shrouded his life. He touched the tools one by one while trying to remember his grandfather. He’d never felt attached to the Anderson family tree, nor to any family for that matter, least of all his own, but as he folded up the pouch, it became tangible proof that he belonged, and instantly it was the most cherished of all his possessions.

  Sarah met him on the front porch. “Are you ready? We’ll take the Subaru.”

  “I’ll meet you in the car in a minute.” He pressed the pouch close and thought of other items he might need to fix the door at Agnes’s farm. As he packed a small toolbox, he realized what his uncle was doing. He was making it clear that Noah was not only accepted as a skilled woodworker, but more importantly, as a trusted member of a family.

  Chapter 7

  As they drove, Noah listened to Sarah’s explanation of Agnes’s dementia and the problems it caused. He felt how deeply she wanted him to love her friend. Sarah needed an ally, and now he added that to his family credentials.

  The farm was, as Sarah said, “rickety,” but having grown up in a run-down section of Baltimore, he could see right past the peeling paint, the overgrown lawn and fields, and the exposed and weathered wood to the structural beauty that lay beneath. Despite the piles of animal dung that left burned-out circles surrounded by weeds, his eyes fixed on the majesty of the setting, from the rolling hills bordered on two sides by a lazy creek to the animal-filled barnyard and pastures that fanned north and east. He saw what it once was and what it could be once again. As he exited the car, he turned in a circle, taking it all in, and breathed out a long welcome sigh.

  “So, you like my little farm?” A pitch-fork-carrying woman with a French accent sallied forth from the dark shadows of the barn. Her manure-caked rubber waders created an interesting contrast with the pink shirt, bright orange lipstick, and broadly penciled eyebrows adorning an elegantly aged face.