A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET

by Lewis, Laurie

  When other girls were off with their mothers experiencing their first manicures, having their ears pierced, and learning how to fix their hair, Tayte was doing her best to address the issues that caused ridicule at school—cutting her own frizzy hair with whatever she could find, washing her clothes in the bathtub using a bar of soap and elbow grease, and bumming sanitary items from the health room. She remembered returning from school wondering when, or if, her parents would even make it home. On those nights, she rummaged through the pockets of dirty laundry, and dug through sofa cushions, to find money so she could face the terror of walking alone down dark, often gang-filled blocks to buy something to eat until her parents either returned from their newest infatuation, or awoke from their latest buzz.

  She always returned to that eighth summer. Second grade had been a year filled with fighting. It was hard to say which hurt worse, the constant arguing at home or the bullying Tayte endured at school. Both ended for a time when her mother took Tayte and left her father. With nowhere else to go, they headed to the farm to meet a stranger called Grandmother.

  Agnes’s house was like a waking dream, clean and fresh, with cupboards filled with more food than Tayte had ever seen outside a grocery store. They were embraced when they arrived, but after the initial welcome, it was clear her grandmother had been appalled at their appearance. Heartbreak came the next day when her mother just disappeared—for two months—leaving a one-line explanation scrawled on an envelope on the kitchen table. The trauma of that abandonment had been worse than any other, but after a few days of scrubbing and basic instruction in etiquette, grandmother and granddaughter achieved a pleasant understanding. In truth, that summer proved to be a turning point in Tayte’s life. Even after her mother dragged her back to her father and away from the serenity of the farm, Tayte clung to the dream of a real home with a talon-like grasp. At eight, she had been unable to prevent the backslide into chaos, but armed with a new standard of living, she fought that retreat while dreaming of a different, better life. And when she finally had the power to choose, she fled her parents’ pandemonium and rarely looked back.

  The acceptability she now enjoyed had been hard won, but it was a fragile victory, for she had a secret: no matter how carefully she scrubbed and dressed up her exterior, inside, Tayte remained that awkward, dirty, ignorant girl.

  She rubbed sunscreen over her tanned face and arms, brushed brown/black mascara over her lashes, and smeared her lips with a thin film of lip balm. After packing her makeup away and tying her hair in a loose bun, she slid her leggy frame into a pair of fresh white Capris and pulled on an aqua T-shirt.

  Her art supplies were neatly stacked against a white wall that boasted the only adornment hung anywhere—a seascape she painted. A scan of her efficient abode revealed a Spartan life—one simple beige sofa, a futon bed, two rustic footlockers she hand-painted and transformed into irresistible Art Nouveau end tables, and a twenty-inch television, all purchased at the same thrift store. The TV was perched on one footlocker, while the other held one photo—of her and her mother the summer she turned eight.

  She was about to grab her supplies and go when she noticed a splash of juice on the counter by the sink. The spot disturbed her peace. Dropping everything, she grabbed a rag and cleaned the mess. Only when the rag was rinsed and rehung over the faucet could she consider leaving the house. Now content, Tayte grabbed her art supplies, and headed to her car.

  The phone buzzed again, and she noticed a slew of frustrated messages and missed calls from Tyler. She quickly texted him the requested information about her morning plans, threw her black Honda into reverse, and headed away from the beach-body madness that possessed the sand from Fifth to Fifteenth streets, in favor of the more family-friendly Indian Beach Park.

  A few families were already frolicking in the waves or busy constructing sand creations. Tayte had her blanket spread and her easel up in ten minutes, but her canvas remained blank an hour later. No inspiration was driving her brush to create anything gallery-worthy or commercial. In fact, the seascapes that once inspired her now left her empty. Every view offered more of the same—scenes of beautiful people baking in Miami’s sun or families playing in the sand and surf.

  Her best work came easily. A subject or setting would speak to her, and hours would pass like mere fractions of that time. These pieces almost always landed in a gallery. Such inspiration had lately become elusive, so more of her time was spent doing joyless commercial work. She would set up near a busy area and begin sketching. Eventually, someone would come by and see themselves or their group emerging on her canvas. When her rough drawing was complete she would open her paints, and within an hour she would rake in two hundred dollars for a repeat of paintings she’d done a hundred times, with only slight variations in the people.

  She scanned the beach for an interesting subject, and her eyes lit on a middle-aged woman walking her dog along the surf. She was dressed simply in beige Capris and a white button-front shirt that seemed to glow against her bronzed skin and darkly dyed hair. Something in her bearing bespoke grace and confidence. Tayte knew Agnes was once such a beauty.

  The woman reached her umbrella and chair and sat, staring off at the water. Tayte quickly pulled out her colored pencils and began sketching. Her fingers drew each line instinctively as if she’d sketched the woman before. She was about to open her paints when a hand reached from behind, cupping her chin and pulling her head back to meet a pair of waiting lips. Annoyed, she nevertheless submitted to end the ritual so she could return to her work.

  Tyler broke the kiss and gazed down upon her captive face. “Baby, I missed you.”

  Tayte was unwilling to offer more than, “Your class is over already?”

  “I skipped out early.” He dropped his canvas beach bag in the sand and shed his shirt and loafers revealing a taut, sun-tanned body. “I’ve been thinking about producing. Miami is the backdrop for a lot of films.” He spread his towel beside her. Once done, he studied her new piece. “That’s a nice sketch of your grandmother.”

  Tayte shot him a scowl and pointed. “I’m sketching that woman over there.”

  After studying the proposed subject he said, “It looks like a younger Agnes.”

  He sat, pulled a can of sun block from his bag, and began spraying his arms and chest, sending greasy micro drops all over the canvas.

  Tayte bolted to her feet as she swung the canvas away from the spray. “What are you doing? You know, some people in this world actually have to work.”

  “Sorry,” he snapped back without rising.

  Tayte noted his meager show of contrition as she surveyed the damage, but as she studied the sketch goose bumps rose on her arms. It is her. It’s my grandmother. That admission caused a lump to form in her throat. She quickly pulled herself together, hoping Tyler hadn’t noticed. She didn’t want more of his romance-motivated sympathy.

  He patted the space beside himself and smiled. “Come down here and let me make it up to you.”

  She didn’t want to be placated. She certainly didn’t want to be touched. “It’s ruined.” Without another word she packed her paints and charcoals into her art box and loaded her canvases into her case.

  “You are way overreacting, Tayte. Can’t you just paint over the stains? “He jumped to his feet. “At least let me help you carry your stuff to the car.”

  Tayte folded her easel and chair and snatched the two totes before Tyler reached them.

  “You had barely started. I’ll buy you a new canvas if that’s what’s got you bugged.”

  His volume was now attracting unnerving attention. Tayte shot him an icy glare that froze him where he stood. She was grateful Tyler didn’t follow when she turned and headed for her car. Was she overreacting? She wasn’t even sure why the sketch upset her so. How had her hand drawn her grandmother when her eyes were on someone else?

  The constant ring of her phone with Tyler’s photo displayed angered her, but she wasn’t certain who she was an
grier at—Tyler or herself. He loved her. He had told her and shown her that time and time again. Why then, did everything about him annoy her since the night after the funeral? Why did every gesture seem inadequate and unsatisfying? Why couldn’t she love him back?

  It had been the same with her parents. So maybe she was the problem.

  When she arrived at her cottage, she pulled the canvas out and looked at the sketch again. She marveled at what she now saw. She had drawn her grandmother. The face was age-worn and elegant. Soft cheeks padded an iron frame of exquisite bone structure. She had sketched the hair long and loose and tinged with gray, but the eyes drew her in. They were wise, and sad, and frightened. They reminded Tayte of her own.

  The sketch was a mix of Agnes, then and now—the happy, energetic grandmother of her childhood blended with the confused and frightened woman Tayte couldn’t reach. She was all Tayte had now, and she had left her after the funeral. Tayte regretted that mistake.

  She found the card Nathaniel had given her with his and Agnes’s numbers. Butterflies filled her stomach as she pressed the buttons and the ringing began.

  “Allo?”

  Tayte stalled. What should I call her? Grandma? Agnes? And how should I introduce myself? She decided to lay out the entire arsenal.

  “Hello, Grandma Agnes? It’s Tayte. Angeline’s daughter. Your granddaughter.”

  Silence. “Angeline’s daughter?”

  “Yes!” Relief engulfed her. “Angeline’s daughter. I came to see you a few weeks ago. Do you remember?” She prayed she would.

  More silence. “You came to see me?”

  “Yes. Nathaniel Briscoe brought me and my friend to your farm.”

  A flirtatious tone entered Agnes’s voice. “He was a handsome young man?”

  Her previous anger with Tyler subsided with the knowledge that he had triggered a memory in Agnes. Tayte’s heart leaped with hope. “Yes! His name is Tyler.”

  “Ah, yes, now I remember. You have dark hair like I had when I was your age.”

  Joy erupted in a burst of Tayte’s laughter. “Mom once told me I looked like you.”

  “She did?” Silence again. “Who was your mother?”

  Tayte closed her eyes, willing herself not to become discouraged. “My mother was your daughter Angeline. I’m your granddaughter, Tayte.”

  “Angeline is gone.” Sorrow tinged the words.

  “Yes she is. I miss her, and I miss you too, Grandma. I’ve called you before. Do you remember that?”

  “No,” she replied thoughtfully. “I don’t remember you calling me.”

  Tayte bit her lip. “I’m going to call you every day, okay? And I’d like to visit you again.”

  “Oh, I would like that very much. Oh, yes! We can go to town. I need more candles.”

  The want in Agnes’s voice tore at Tayte’s heart. It was a familiar ache, and she wished she could head straight up the highway. She was making progress understanding the way her grandmother’s mind processed information, but she had so much to learn. Vague information was literal in Agnes’s world, where a mention of a future visit became the hope of a ride to the grocery store today. It was childlike, and Tayte made a mental note to remember.

  “I can’t come today, but I’ll try to come very soon. I love you, Grandma. I miss you.”

  It was as if another chip fell from the wall between them. Agnes’s voice filled with warmth and recognition. “Oh, my sweet girl, I miss you too. Come soon, Tayte. Come as soon as you can.”

  The next thirty minutes flew by, sprinkled with laughter and a few tears. Agnes asked Tayte questions about her life and then some about Angeline. Tayte shared memories of her mother from her childhood, and Agnes shared stories Tayte had never heard before. When the conversation ended, Tayte had made a decision.

  She grabbed a pad and started scribbling notes. Within half an hour she had an actual plan, and she called Nathaniel Briscoe.

  “Perhaps you should sleep on this for a few days, Tayte.”

  “I know it seems sudden, Mr. Briscoe, but I’ve been thinking about this every day since the funeral.”

  “Call me Nathaniel. I just don’t know what to say. You’ll have to take it slowly. Agnes will need time to get to know you. Her condition is worsening.”

  “That’s why I have to do this now, but I need your help.”

  “I’m proud of you, Tayte. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Those simple words flushed the fear away for a time. Tayte wondered what it was about her grandmother that commanded such loyalty from this attorney. She didn’t think Agnes was a woman of great means, able to pay for hours of personal attention, so why did this fancy lawyer hover so protectively over her and now over Tayte? It didn’t matter. He was there, and willing to do whatever she asked, and she had a long list.

  Tyler’s car screeched into the drive. With a quick thank you, she hung up with the attorney and prepared for the red-faced storm she saw stomping up the walk. Before a knock sounded, she opened the door and stood defiantly in the opening to receive Tyler’s initial rebuke.

  “I thought you were just putting your art stuff away. Why did you leave?”

  “You ruined my canvas.”

  “Good grief, Tayte, it was an accident. I’ll get you another one.”

  She could have scripted Tyler’s response. It left her especially empty today. “You can’t replace my sketch. You can’t fix thoughtlessness by throwing money around.”

  His face went slack as he shifted his weight. Tayte noticed the evident chagrin that crept into his voice.

  “Okay, I’m . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why a sketch of a total stranger is so important to you.”

  Tayte stared him down, her cold gaze piercing him like icicles.

  He took two steps back, forked his hands into his tangled golden curls, and shook his head. “You are making me completely crazy, do you know that?”

  “Then you really don’t get it, or me, and this conversation might as well be over.”

  Confusion wrinkled Tyler’s brow. “Are you kidding?” Tayte closed the door, but Tyler caught it with his foot. “This is about your grandmother, isn’t it?”

  His correct assessment caught Tayte by surprise, but the tone in his voice lacked the understanding the revelation warranted. His smile was cocky, as if he were expecting an award for his brilliant deduction. He reached for her, wearing a sympathetic grin that bordered on condescension, as if she were a two-year-old whose ice cream cone had fallen to the hot pavement. He saw the moment as an opening to assume the unwelcome roles of boyfriend and comforter, but Tayte didn’t feel peaceful or safe. She felt claustrophobic and preyed upon.

  “I’m leaving town for a while. I’m going to Maryland.” The announcement that lifted the elephant-sized weight from her shoulders appeared to crush Tyler. Before he had time to process the news and construct a coherent reply she added, “I never should have left Agnes in the first place. She’s all I’ve got now.”

  “What?” Tyler shook his head as if unsure he’d heard her right. When she offered no correction, his face went blank. “All you’ve got? What’s that say about me? About us?”

  The pain in his voice took her aback. He clearly did love her, in his own way, but it wasn’t enough. Or maybe the problem really was her. All she knew was she could finally draw an easy breath, the first since the funeral, and she wasn’t going to allow guilt to change her mind.

  “It’s not you, it’s—”

  His hands shot up like a shield, and his face flushed angry crimson. “Please spare me the trite break-up lines. I think I deserve that much.”

  Tayte searched her heart for the deeper, more truthful answer he awaited, and what she found startled her. “Like it or not, that’s the truth. I’m a mess, Tyler. The best part of my childhood was the few months I spent with Agnes. My mother kept me from her for years, and I don’t want to miss this last opportunity to be with her.”

  He stepped toward her. “Then let me come
with you. I’ll work things out with my professors.”

  “No.” She hadn’t intended for it to carry the harsh finality it did, but neither did she attempt to soften it. “I want time alone with her.”

  Moments of leaden silence crawled by. “All right. Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here waiting.”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I want to devote myself completely to her right now. I don’t want the distraction of being anyone’s girlfriend and all the expectations that go with that.”

  “Is that all I’ve been to you? A distraction?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. But we want different things. Life is a vacation to you. You run from boundaries and obligations. That’s what drew me to you, and then I realized why. That’s how my childhood was, but that’s not what I really wanted then, and it’s not what I need now. I want roots. I want a real home. I don’t want to be the top of my own family tree. As pitiful as it probably sounds, I just want to be someone’s child for a while.”

  “Then do what you need to do. Just call me. Keep me informed.”

  Tayte moved back behind the threshold and grasped the door. “No promises, okay?”

  Tyler shook his head. “If I call you, will you at least pick up?”

  “No promises.” Then she closed the door.

  Chapter 10

  Tayte was ready for a change. She wouldn’t miss Miami’s manic obsession with body type and appearance, but she would miss the ocean, the Cuban food, and the architecture. It was a good place for artists, but a bad place to be poor, and an easy place to fade into invisibility. Only Tyler would miss her, and she felt certain that even he would soon get over her.

  As expected, it took less than two days to make arrangements, and only three hours to scrub and pack her Miami world into her Honda. She headed out at five a.m. and drove straight through, munching on veggies and refilling her shaker cup with protein drinks for the first few hours, eventually resorting to caffeinated drinks, sandwiches, and pecan logs purchased from Stuckey’s. The farther north she drove, the more she craved comfort food, and instead of Tyler’s Miami sounds, she searched the XM stations until she found one that played the classic rock tunes her parents listened to. She noted each shift back to her past, but she didn’t fight it as she had when she fled Maryland. She was in control. These were choices. She was making them.