A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET

by Lewis, Laurie

  Tayte nodded and wiped at her eyes. “All right.”

  “And you were wrong about my father. He was a good man. A great man.”

  “I should never have leapt to those conclusions. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about your father. I’m realizing I know very little about my own mother, but I’d like to. I’d like to know about everyone. I hope you’ll tell me about your family someday.”

  Agnes caught Tayte’s exclusion of herself from her people. “You mean our family. You are the last Devereaux and the last Keller.” She extended her arms to Tayte who settled nervously into her offered embrace.

  Agnes pulled back and looked at Tayte. “You want to know the truth about this family?”

  Tayte looked at Noah, who encouraged her with a nod. “If you’re ready to tell me. I know your father was the head curator at the Palais Rohan in Strasbourg.”

  Agnes pointed to the chairs, and when the pair was seated, she sat on her bed and snuggled the covers like a royal robe around her shoulders. “Those paintings are not ours. They belonged to the others, the ones the dragons murdered.”

  Tayte shot a shocked glance at Noah. Agnes understood. She still struggled over the horrors of that war.

  Agnes’s eyes fixed on an imperceptible spot in the air as she was transported to another place and time. “My grandmother tried to warn her family that the dragons would come again, but this time they did not come on horses, but in tanks and planes. Because of my father’s work at the gallery, Mother’s relatives came to our doorstep from many lands asking him to protect their treasures from the Nazis. But the dragons didn’t come for treasure alone. They came for them.”

  “Your mother’s relatives were Jews?”

  “Yes.” She nodded many times as the scenes of terrorized, hunted people appearing at her childhood door replayed in her mind. “Father hid their treasures in the basement of the museum, but when he was in the hospital recuperating from his wounds, he heard the Nazis were raiding the museums and galleries as well, and he knew he needed a new place to hide them.”

  “So he shipped them to America?”

  “He applied for a position at the Chancery in Washington. He planned to include the art in the shipment headed there.”

  “But you were left behind.”

  Left behind . . . The words still chilled her. “Father told Mother and me to get to his family’s home in Switzerland, but Mother delayed too long. The bombings began, so we went into hiding with other refugees.

  “When the date came for Father to travel, he assumed we were safe in Switzerland, and that we would join him soon, so he left for America, not knowing that we were in harm’s way.” Agnes closed her eyes against the pain. “One can breathe and still be dead. It was so with my mother. Other refugees took care of us until the Allies arrived. Once we came out of hiding and were identified, we discovered all Father had done to find us.

  “Soon after we arrived in America, Father left his position and bought the farm. He hoped the quiet of farm life would bring Mother back, but she never really returned to us. So we became vintners, and we hid here until it was safe.”

  “Why did you hide? Were you afraid the Nazis would come, even after the war?”

  “Yes, for a few years. You must understand what it was like. The Nazis made people disappear before and during the war, and after the war the papers printed stories about war criminals who had been caught with looted treasure. Father feared the paintings would draw them or looters to us, so he kept them hidden in the attic. He wrote letters to members of Mother’s family, telling them where we were. But so few of them survived. Father always intended to take the collection back to Europe and find the owners.”

  Tayte leaned close and took her grandmother’s hand. “Why didn’t he?”

  “There was no money. Father put everything into the vineyard. He considered selling one or two of the paintings to fund a trip to Europe to return the rest, but how could he choose whose treasure to sell? And so he did nothing. And that regret wore away at his soul every day.”

  Agnes had mentally rehearsed the saga behind her sorrow for nearly sixty years, and after decades spent bottled up inside her, the words now poured out.

  “I was in love with Sharlz Briscoe then, and I begged Papa to let me show him the collection. He promised on his life that he would keep our secret, and I promised my father equally, but Sharlz betrayed me. He told Eleanor.”

  “Mrs. Briscoe,” said Noah.

  “Yes, but this was before their marriage,” replied Agnes before spitting three times in the air. “That dragon pressed him and pressed him until he told her. I thought Father would die when he heard.” She tightened the blanket around her shoulders.

  “It was a very bad year. Almost as bad as the war. I lost Sharlz, Father lost the vineyard, and then we lost my mother. Papa just gave up.” She wiped a tear as it traced down her cheek. “He was a good man who died poor, believing he was a failure. I could not let him down as well.

  “Tony understood why I could never sell the paintings, but Angeline never did. She hated me for depriving her of things she knew I could give her if I sold the art. I tried to explain, but she fought me on everything. Her ears were filled with gossip.”

  “Someone told her about the candle, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, Noah, but not the whole truth. I lit it as a promise to wait for Sharlz, and then I lit it to spite him for his betrayal. I did not know my father came to love that little light in the window. He said it called him home when he was out in the field. One day I told him I had no reason to light it anymore, but he kissed my head and asked me to light it for him and for Tony, to welcome them. Tony always understood why I continued with the gesture, but Angeline would not listen.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, Grandmother,” urged Tayte as she held her hands up like stop signs. “So you did love my mother’s father.”

  The question caught Agnes off guard. “Of course. Tony was my world.”

  “But . . . but you grieved for Charles.”

  “Not for Sharlz, but for what I lost that day. That woman took what was most dear to me when she tempted Sharlz into breaking his promise. She cost me the trust of my father.”

  Tayte’s long held breath released into a long sigh. “But Charles left you for Eleanor.”

  “He did not leave me. I sent him away. Eleanor enjoyed the fact that he broke his promise, so to protect the art, I lied about everything. She loved humiliating me.”

  Agnes huffed. “Sharlz begged me to forgive him, but I could never trust him after what he did, so he ran to Eleanor, just as she planned. Tony stood by me when I was unlovable. I knew he would always stand by me.”

  “But you forgave Charles eventually, didn’t you?” asked Noah.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I felt so sorry for him. My life was perfect, and his was so very hard.”

  Agnes noticed the satisfied light that brightened Tayte’s face. “Does that surprise you, little one?” she asked.

  Tayte moved to sit beside Agnes. One arm reached around Agnes’s shoulders and her head came to rest against Agnes’s gray hair. “It would have a week ago, but not today. I have some good news for you. When I made the inquiries about the art, I found out that France has launched a worldwide effort to reunite Nazi-looted art with its rightful families. If you have any records, I bet they could help you return the collection.”

  Agnes pursed her lips in thought. “Father wrote out receipts for every piece, but I can’t remember where they are.”

  “Would you have given them to Charles?” asked Tayte. “Nathaniel Briscoe mentioned a sealed letter in your file. The instructions indicate that it’s not to be opened until your death.”

  “Yes. I remember now. I passed the task on to Sharlz, but it’s time to end this.” She reached a wrinkled hand to Tayte. “Perhaps you’d be willing to help me fulfill my Father’s promise?”

  Chapter 28

  Noah was the first one up Sunday morning. The previous day ha
d been among the darkest of Noah’s life, but Sunday dawned like a hopeful omen, with brilliant color that dissipated into a cloudless sky, trumpeting his renewed optimism.

  He looked at the clock. Aunt Sarah was boarding a plane with Jared, who would soften her mourning. He could hear Agnes whistling “Tammy, “from her bedroom, and Tayte’s off-key voice drifted from upstairs as she sang some ditty playing on the radio.

  In his old life, Sundays were catch-up days—catch up on sleep or catch up on work. Uncle John and Aunt Sarah went to church. Would Agnes want to? He made a mental note to ask her. In the meantime, he pulled out Agnes’s cookbook and whipped up a batch of her yeasty Belgian waffle batter, setting it to rest while he fed the animals. The scent of vanilla pulled him back to the house. When he came in, he found Tayte standing at the waffle iron, with her dark hair piled loosely on her head, lifting a steaming, pocked cake from the iron. She turned as she heard the door open. She was wearing no makeup, and a pair of glasses.

  “What?” She smiled.

  “Your glasses. I like the look.”

  She touched an arm of the frame. “My eyes were too irritated to wear contacts this morning. Probably from all the crying I’ve done the past few days.”

  “No more crying.” Noah stepped to her and brushed his thumb across her cheek before placing a soft kiss on her lips. He studied her bundled hair and her clean skin. “I like all this too.”

  She scowled comically. “This is what I look like in real life, mister.”

  He scowled back and pointed to his old radio-station T-shirt and day-old beard. “This is what I look like in real life.”

  Tayte pushed him softly. “It’s not fair that a guy’s real-life look is sexy and a girl’s real-life look is just sloppy.”

  Noah grinned over her compliment. His arms reached around her, and he gazed down into her magnified green eyes with those gold flecks. He wanted to tell her she was perfection to him. Instead, he cocked his head and raised a lone eyebrow in mock confidence. “So, you find me sexy? I’m marking this day on the calendar.”

  She laughed and buried her face into his shirt before looking up at him. “Don’t let it go to your head, farm boy,” she teased as she broke their embrace. “Sit down. I’m dressing these waffles up special for you.”

  Noah sat down and leaned back, awash in feelings of contentment. “You feel it too.”

  “What?” she asked, her own smile broadening.

  “That we’ve turned a corner. Things are going to be great from now on.”

  Her lips pursed in thought, and then she smiled. “Yeah. I do feel that way.”

  Agnes strode in wearing work clothes and exceptionally bright fuchsia lips. Her own hair was braided down her back. Noah whistled as she crossed the room to give Tayte a hug.

  “Good morning, my darlings. What shall we do on this beautiful day?”

  Tayte stood flummoxed by the affection, while her waffle-batter dipper dripped dots on the floor. Noah rose and pulled a chair out for Agnes, receiving a kiss on his cheek in payment.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, would you like to go to church? Do you even have a church you attend?”

  A wistful look came over her eyes. “It’s been a long time. I would like that very much, but we are too late today.”

  “We’ll repent this week and next Sunday we’ll all go to church. Then what would you like to do today, my lady?”

  Agnes sat back and, in a resonant voice, said, “I just want to play on my farm.”

  The request sounded delicious to Noah. It signaled that Agnes had returned to them in spirit as well as in body, and both he and Tayte were ready for a lazy day on the farm.

  Chores and post-storm clean up loomed on Monday’s schedule. Before the breakfast dishes were done, Tayte was in high waders, mucking stalls by Noah’s side, while Agnes hoed her vegetable garden. An hour into their work, they heard the rip and roar of a motor, and in a flash they dropped their pitchforks and raced to the sound, finding Agnes holding a leaf blower, which she was using to blow away the puddles and mud left on the sidewalks by the recent storm. Dirt and mud flew in every direction, pasting dead cherry blossoms, leftover fall leaves, and every other imaginable debris against the house and across the front porch. Speckles of mud blew back at her, into her hair and over her clothes.

  Tayte’s mouth hung open when she saw the mess. She shouted over the motor, “Stop! Grandma! Stop! That’s a leaf blower! You don’t use it to clean mud puddles.”

  Noah held his breath as Agnes released the grip on the button that dropped the motor to a soft idle. Tayte’s censure continued, and their perfect day began to implode.

  “You and the house are covered in mud. Why didn’t you use the hose? It’s right there.”

  In a shriveled voice, Agnes answered, “This was more fun.”

  Before Noah could repair the damage, Tayte extended her hand to grab the blower away. Noah closed his eyes, unable to bear the tragic reversal he saw occurring in Agnes.

  After several agonizing moments, he heard the engine rev again, and felt the splatter of mud on his face. When his eyes opened, he saw Tayte in control of the blower, spraying mud and water in wild abandon. She idled the engine and handed it back to Agnes, whose head was cast downward. Tayte pasted on a broad smile and spoke with convincing, albeit repentant cheer, “You were right, Grandma. This way is more fun.”

  Tayte turned on the hose. “I’ll spray. You blow. Teamwork, okay?”

  Agnes glared at Tayte through narrowed eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I need to worry less. I just want to enjoy your farm today.”

  The words cast a spell over Agnes, returning her smile in proportion to the rip of the motor. In a few minutes all three were sopping, muddy messes, as was the house, porch and windows on the barn side of the home.

  Cold and wet, they flopped in the sun-kissed front yard and dried in the May warmth, laughing and chatting as the dirty splotches baked on their skin and clothes. Agnes struggled to a sit and said. “I want to fish.”

  Tayte and Noah looked at each other and replied, “Okay.”

  “I’ll dig some worms,” said Agnes, who quickly stood to fetch her shovel and pail.

  Noah rolled over to his side facing Tayte, enjoying this mud-speckled view of her.

  “You’re looking at me as if you’re seeing me for the first time.”

  “I believe I am.”

  Her eyes shifted, unable to hold his gaze.

  “I think you did a great thing back there.”

  “I almost blew it again.”

  “But you didn’t. I’m proud of you.”

  She too rolled to her side, excitement showing in her eyes. “I think I’m getting it. I just need to step back and count to ten before reacting. Maybe I can do this.”

  His hand brushed her hair, ending behind her neck. He leaned his head in, pulling her toward him. “You can do anything you want,” he whispered as his lips neared hers. “You just need to trust.”

  His mouth came down softly on hers, savoring the closeness, the connection to another. Pull back. Pull back, his brain commanded his heart. He broke the kiss but hovered above her lips for several seconds, breathing her in. His head came forward, pressing brow to brow. Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out. “I love you, Tayte.”

  Her body tensed. She sat up and grabbed her knees. When she spoke, her voice came out like a cry. “I care for you more than I’ve ever cared for anyone. Why can’t that be enough?”

  Noah’s forehead pressed into the grass. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t planning on saying that.” Silence passed between them until Noah lifted his head and sat up. “You know what? I’m not going to apologize for saying it. I know you feel it too.”

  “Feeling it is . . . private, but saying it? That’s the beginning of a relationship. That comes with expectations, like committing to one person, and expecting them to commit to me. My own parents couldn’t devote themselves that fully to their only child.” She rubbed
her hands over prickling arms. “I might as well go tightrope walking without a net. If everything goes perfectly, it could be extraordinary, but one slipup, one mistake, and the fall would shatter me. I’d never recover. I can’t do that.”

  It wasn’t the answer Noah wanted. He stood and offered his hand to help Tayte up. “I’m going to wash my face before we go fishing.”

  She pulled back on his hand without standing. “Are we okay?”

  “I won’t push you, Tayte, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Her head tipped to the side as worry lines crinkled her brow. “But are we okay?”

  “Running away got me nowhere. I deserve more, and so do you. You said you wanted the fairy tale. At some point you’re going to have to fight to make that dream come true.”

  He pulled her to a stand and they trudged to the house. Once the bulk of the mud was washed from their faces, they met Agnes who waited outside holding three fishing poles of varying ages and states of utility, her rusted tackle box, and a pail of rich earth and worms. Clumps of moist dirt also blackened her fingers and knees. Noah chuckled at the sight of her.

  “Do you want to wash up before we go, Agnes?”

  She wrinkled her nose at the silliness of the idea. “Why? We’re going fishing.”

  Tayte passed on the invitation to fish. Instead, she opted to sketch images of the storm’s aftermath from a muddy hillside while Brutus and Bijou dashed about, antagonizing one another. Noah and Agnes also avoided the shoreline, fishing instead from a rocky outcropping that overhung the muddy creek—one of the few spots to survive the flood unscathed. Noah tried not to look at the debris scattered along the entire shoreline. Days of work would be required to reclaim the waterfront’s pristine beauty.

  Agnes appeared unconcerned, as if she had seen the broad creek’s messy give and take before. Noah knew this was her heaven, the solace of her youth, and the location of so many of her best memories. He watched her soak up the peaceful wait between nibbles, reeling in three rainbow trout and a smallmouth bass while he caught only one small trout.