A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET

by Lewis, Laurie

  Wes shot Mark a confused look. “But back at the dealership—I thought you specifically said you didn’t want to paint when Gina was going to be there.”

  Mark’s expression was sheepish. “I know, I know. But I just thought of something a minute ago, and I need to talk it out with Gina. Are you interested?”

  Wes nodded and grinned. “Just tell me where and when.”

  Avery smiled as Wes left again later that evening. “It’s been a good day,” she muttered as she recalled his earlier return from lunch with her car’s AC fixed, a bunch of videos, and that ornery grin. She knew he was up to something, and he was.

  “Mark asked me to help him with a project tonight. Would you mind postponing our dinner?” Wes asked.

  “The food will keep, Wes,” Avery said. “But what else do you have up your sleeve? I know that shifty look of yours.”

  She chuckled again, remembering how hard he’d worked to pitch the cookbook idea and how shocked he was when she calmly and easily agreed to contribute a recipe, saying, “The added publicity won’t hurt, and if it can help Gabriel’s daughter—well, maybe it will smooth the girls’ ruffled feathers. I’d like them to feel comfortable enough to come by and visit while I’m here.”

  Wes’s face lit up like a kid’s at Christmas, and he forced her to stop working long enough to sit with him and have their movie date while sharing a bowl of popcorn. Avery could hardly keep her mind on the movie, so pleased was she by the new spark in her son’s eyes.

  As soon as he left, she grabbed a sandwich and headed back to the computer, secretly excited to get back to writing, amazed at what she had accomplished in a day.

  Yes, this is a healing place . . .

  Wes and Mark reached the girls’ rented house around six thirty. Emilia was clearly surprised to see her brother-in-law standing there when she opened the door, particularly after their earlier understanding. But her shock quickly shifted to a bright, welcoming joy, shifting to skepticism with equal rapidity when she saw Wes. “Aren’t you the guy from this morning?”

  Wes offered her his most apologetic smile and nodded. He thrust out his hand, though her own had not been offered. “Hi, I’m Wes Thompson. Sorry about this morning. I was trying to be funny. Evidently, humor isn’t my natural gift.”

  Emilia eventually shook his dangling hand and stood wide-eyed as the pair entered the house, lugging in their assorted supplies. She cast a sideways glance at the newcomer and asked, “Did you say Thompson?”

  “Uh . . . y-y-yes.” He braced, knowing what was coming next.

  Emilia’s brows furrowed. “Didn’t you say your mother was vacationing on the island?”

  Wes looked at Mark for moral support, and Mark came to his defense.

  “Yes, Emilia. His mother is the woman renting your father’s house for the summer.”

  Emilia harrumphed at the handsome stranger. “Did you know we’re in this mess because we were forced to move after being evicted from our home so your mother could live there?”

  Mark approached his sister-in-law. “I think you’re missing a few key points here, Emilia. You’re in this mess because your redecorating plans ran amuck.”

  “Which we—” She began to argue but was cut off by Mark.

  “Which you were engaged in because your father decided to take an extended assignment and chose to rent out his home. It just happened to be to Wes’s mom.”

  Looking mollified, Emilia stared at Mark, slowly making her way toward him. “I think the least you can do is give me a minute’s tantrum. I’ve been the level-headed one through all this, you know.”

  Mark drew her into his arms. “I know, I know.”

  “You were expelled from your home, though,” Wes put in, “and I’d like to help.”

  Emilia closed her eyes and smiled, then crossed to where Wes stood. She offered her hand and reintroduced herself. “Hi. I’m Emilia Carson. Thanks for your help, Wes.”

  Wes fought the urge to melt into her beautiful brown eyes. “You’re most welcome, Emilia, and I come bearing another peace offering,”

  “Oh, you do, do you?”

  Mark jumped in. “Emilia, Wes’s mother is not just your father’s summer tenant. She is Avery Elkins Thompson, a famous author—famous as in she is willing to contribute to your company’s fund-raising cookbook.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She turned to face Wes as relief and hope lit her face.

  Wes felt as pleased as a child handing a gift to his favorite teacher. “I overheard your conversation this morning. So . . . this would be a help to you?”

  “Are you kidding?” she cried, grabbing him by the arms. “This is like a miracle! Thank you! Please thank your mother for me.”

  “Thank her yourself. She asked me to invite you and your sister to supper tomorrow evening. Mark, that includes you, of course. You can discuss all the details with her then.”

  “That should lock up the internship for you, shouldn’t it, Millie?” Mark asked as he started rolling up the flamingo rug.

  “The last I heard, my competition was securing a chili recipe from a DJ at some Tampa Bay radio station. Yeah, I’d say this ought to do it.” She squealed while throwing her arms over her head. “Wow, I feel like an elephant has been lifted from my shoulders.”

  “Good,” Mark said, interrupting her happy dance. “Then help us prep the room.”

  The three were moving furniture into the center of the room and laying drop cloths on the floor when Gina entered with several grocery bags. “Mark?” she said with obvious surprise.

  Without a word, he hurried over and took the bags from her arms. “I thought I’d get this painting finished so you two could finally get the place put back together.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a tense smile.

  Mark placed the groceries in the kitchen. “Mil helped us with the prep. By the way, this is Wes Thompson. His mother is your father’s tenant.”

  Before Gina had a chance to react, Emilia rushed in. “Guess what, Gina? She’s a best-selling author, and she has agreed to be included in the cookbook.”

  Gina listened, wide-eyed. “Really?” She unclipped her long, dark hair and shook it out. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to put these groceries away.” Then she headed for the kitchen.

  Mark shrugged at Wes as Emilia hurried in to help, leaving the two men alone.

  “I guess there’s not much chance Gina will be joining us for dinner,” Wes observed.

  “She wasn’t always like this. I guess tonight’s not the best choice for me to try and talk with her.” With a disappointed smirk, Mark dipped his brush in the paint can.

  Wes and Mark painted the garish orange trim on the damaged wall and were making good headway on the other walls when the girls returned to the room. Emilia approached with an optimistic smile, and Gina appeared more conciliatory.

  “Both Gina and I look forward to meeting your mom, Wes,” Emilia offered. “What time should we be there?”

  Wes wasn’t sure about the hour. “How about six? Would that work?”

  Emilia shot Gina an encouraging glance and received a lukewarm response in return. “Six works for us.”

  Wes nodded nervously and almost regretted extending the invitation. Emilia settled his nerves when she left her sister, grabbed an available brush, and joined in painting. A few moments later, the two struck up a cheery conversation about their IMG Academy Camp days.

  When Mark turned back to join them on the wall, Gina drew close and asked, “Have you two eaten?”

  Wes was too engaged in conversation with Emilia to respond until Mark tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Wes, have you eaten?”

  Wes nodded, barely breaking the conversational stride with Emilia, and Mark turned back to Gina and said, “I came straight from work, but don’t put yourself out. I can grab a sandwich on my way home.”

  Gina shifted her feet. “I have some stir-fry in the fridge. How does that sound?”

  Mark dipped his brush in t
he can again and came up smiling. “That sounds great.”

  Gina reappeared, setting a tray filled with food and drinks on the coffee table. It was clear she wanted to join the threesome, but her face clouded and she started to withdraw.

  “Thanks, Gina,” Emilia said between laughing exchanges with Wes.

  Mark moved toward the food and Gina. “Won’t you stay and eat with us?” he asked.

  Their eyes locked for a second, and the tension subsided momentarily, and then sadness flooded Gina’s eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then will you sit a minute and keep me company while I eat?”

  Gina smiled meekly and filled a plate for Mark, then led the way out the door and onto the porch.

  Emilia’s eyes followed the pair until the door closed behind them.

  “That looks encouraging,” said Wes.

  “I hope so,” Emilia muttered.

  “I can see how close the two of you are. What a great thing.”

  Emilia looked into his face as if she were deciding whether or not to share a secret. “Not always,” she uttered under her breath as she dipped her brush in the can and returned to painting the wall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anna Maria Island, Florida, May 7

  Avery spent the morning on the back deck with her laptop and cell phone, transmitting signed contracts and preliminary pages to her editor while her previously cooked roast beef dinner was warming in a Crockpot. Dessert had already been ordered from a bakery with free delivery on the island. What a world, she thought.

  She was buoyed by her editor’s renewed excitement over her work, but her confidence sagged a few hours later when she hit a creative roadblock. She just couldn’t focus.

  Luke was on her mind. It had been days since they last shared an actual conversation beyond the exchange of phone messages and terse emails because one or the other missed their call. A sense of foreboding nagged at Avery as she thought of his solitary stay in the house filled with old memories, from which both she and Wes had temporarily fled. She clicked on her email inbox and found three new messages from her sons’ co-mother—Jamie. Gabriel’s last email was still unanswered. Then she saw one from Luke:

  * * *

  Mom,

  Hey. Sorry I missed your call again. Work and stuff are keeping me busy. Stephen is staying with me for a while. We’re sharing expenses. He works nights, so it’s pretty boring, but he introduced me to a girl who goes to USU, and we’ve been hanging out, so it’s all good.

  I saw Jamie yesterday. She’s getting a little belly now. Say hi to Wes.

  Love, Luke

  * * *

  Avery put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. Four thoughts annoyed her. What “stuff” was keeping him busy? Why Stephen, of all people? Who was this girl, and what did “hanging out” imply?

  Stephen was a roller-blading snowboarder who barely graduated from high school. His career goal was to backpack around the country to try out all the best half-pipes. Avery sincerely believed he’d wiped out a few too many times. Great!

  Hearing that Luke was spending time with an unnamed girl was the most worrisome point. Avery wondered what happened to Jillie, the girl he was rumored to be seeing just prior to Avery’s departure—the nice, safe, daughter-of-a-friend-from-church?

  High moral standards were set early and often in the Thompson household. Avery and Paul not only taught their kids the religious reasons for chastity until marriage, but they assured them that avoiding premarital sex would make them safer and happier. She had seen enough tears and overheard enough ear-burning gossip in the high school writing lab to confirm the mental and emotional pain casual sex caused teens. She saw the toll it had on students’ lives and education first hand, and, harder still, was the stress on girls who became pregnant. She was grateful her kids were spared those complications.

  Luke had already spent a college semester living on campus, far from his mom’s hovering influence. She trusted his good judgment then, but his vague mention of this new girl made her flinch. She would call Jamie later. Jamie would get the scoop. No one could hide anything from that girl.

  Avery next turned to Gabriel’s email. She felt she was ready to answer him, but she was due at the museum by noon, so she kept her reply brief and positive.

  * * *

  Dear Gabriel,

  I have to tell you that your email stirred a lot of old feelings in me—so much so that I abandoned my manuscript and began anew. Yes, I do remember how Axel’s words made me feel inside, and I miss that introspection. I’ll keep you informed on my progress and would enjoy it if you’d let me know what you think of Axel’s other books. Your insight has inspired me.

  You may enjoy hearing that your daughters are coming to dinner tonight. Mark introduced my son Wes to Emilia, and she made quite an impression. I think they met for a breakfast date this very morning. I hope they become good friends.

  I ordered a key lime pie from the bakery you recommended, and Wes and I are planning on trying one eatery on your list each weekend. How about you? Teddie says you are on seafood overload. How do you feel about Italian? Little Italy is only blocks away, you know.

  Avery

  * * *

  She set the table and left before Wes returned, arriving at the museum a little before noon. Her daily assignment was waiting for her at the main office, and she was delighted to learn that she’d be shadowing an experienced docent at the Cà d’Zan. Avery felt particularly relieved that she had spent time studying the book on the mansion, committing to memory many of the facts regarding its construction and decoration, as well as the poignant story of the owners, John and Mabel Ringling.

  Her mentor for the day was a small, handsome matron with pinkish hair. Ruth Feldman’s story of prestige and fortune almost rivaled the Ringlings’. Her husband, Stanley, had been a successful land speculator in the Sarasota area, amassing hotels, resorts, and shopping centers. Since his death, Ruth continued in his footsteps, contributing huge sums to worthy causes, and investing both her time and her financial resources in advancing Sarasota’s emergence as a Mecca for artists of all genres. She therefore took an instant liking to Avery and gave her a wonderful museum orientation, sharing trivia few others were privileged to know because, as Ruth modestly noted, “My husband’s people were their friends and contemporaries.”

  While on the instructional tour, Avery spotted a small, bent man tending the rose garden. He seemed strikingly familiar to her. “Ruth, who is that?” she questioned.

  “The gardener? That’s George O’Hara. He’s been here nearly forty years, longer than I have.”

  “He looks familiar to me, but how could that be possible?”

  Ruth sighed and shook her head. “I couldn’t say. This place is his whole world since his wife died about seven years ago. You wouldn’t know it to talk to George, though. He speaks of her as though she were still alive.”

  “Is he—?” Avery asked.

  “Delusional? Oh, no. He just loved her deeply for so many years. He has an interesting perspective on death. He says he’s just holding down the fort until they’re together again.”

  “You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ruth chuckled. “He’s a little eccentric. He lives as if he were as poor as a church mouse when he actually lives on one of the most sought-after pieces of land in the county. People that don’t understand George treat him shoddily, but we go way back. Stanley actually brought him here to work at the museum.”

  “Really?”

  “George was a jockey, a very good one in fact, until he was trampled in a bad accident on the track at Hialeah.” She frowned at the memory. “Stanley saw him go down that day. He was busted up so badly he couldn’t get a stable to hire him to ride again, so George started caring for the Hialeah grounds and working in the stables instead. My Stanley spotted him pruning shrubs by the gate one day. He convinced the curator here to hire George as the groundskeeper. He bought a
few acres along a quiet little road off Route 41 in the late ’60s. A big developer started buying land for a resort community there about twenty years ago. One by one, all his other neighbors sold out, but George wouldn’t move as long as the kids were still home. Then Sophie took sick, and he couldn’t bear to move her. After she died he wouldn’t leave because his memories were there.”

  “He sounds charming.”

  “Oh, he’s a character all right. Few people have seen the things George has seen.”

  The tram pulled up, loaded with guests holding tickets for the mansion tour.

  Ruth fluffed her hair and threw her shoulders back. “Show time!”

  As Ruth led the group through one extravagant room after another, Avery followed along, picking up an amusing anecdote here and an architectural tidbit there. After leading the second tour onto the terrace, the tour’s end, Ruth turned to Avery.

  “How about joining me for a wine spritzer at the Banyan Café? My treat.”

  Avery looked at her watch and grimaced. “I’ve got dinner guests coming at six tonight so I need to leave a little early, but I think I’ve got a few minutes. Can you make mine a fruit smoothie instead?”

  “Of course.”

  The women decided to walk to the café, which sat between the main museum ticket office and the Cà d’Zan. On the way they passed the curious jockey-turned-gardener.

  “George!” Ruth called out. “I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.”

  George hobbled over and stared at Avery from his five-foot-two-inch vantage point, his expression implying that he too felt they had met before.

  “George, this is Avery Thompson. She’s volunteering this summer. She’s from—”

  “—from Utah,” he responded with a smile as he pulled his glove off and offered his hand.

  Avery was stunned. “How did you know that?”