A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET

by Lewis, Laurie

  Luke didn’t respond.

  “Talk to me,” Brady exclaimed. “You haven’t been yourself lately. Are you and she—?”

  Luke yelled into the receiver. “I told you, it was just a movie!”

  “Seriously?”

  “Do you think I’m lying?”

  “I believe your story about falling asleep watching a movie, but you’ve had more than a few strange stories lately, and you’ve gone dark too many times for people who love you not to worry. You missed dinner with us last weekend because you lost track of time while you were with Sonnet up in the dunes, and you hardly ever answer your phone or return our calls.”

  “All right, okay. So I like her! I admit it. We started out just as friends, but now I like her. I’m nearly twenty, you know!”

  “I know, but—”

  “But what?” Luke challenged.

  “I was going to say if you like her so much, why haven’t you brought her by?”

  Luke’s voice became contrite. “I will. When I’m ready. She’s different than other girls I’ve dated. I’m not sure she can handle being swamped by our family.”

  “It’s just Jamie and me and you, Luke. We’re all we have this summer. We’re all adjusting. We need to take care of each other—look out for one another. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “You two take care of each other.” Luke’s voice was soft. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle things up here.”

  Brady swallowed hard. “How about coming by for supper Saturday? Jamie has a baby shower to go to. You and I can grill some steaks, watch a ball game—guy stuff.”

  “I’ll get back to you, okay?” Luke said. “I might be going camping.”

  Brady’s silence told Luke he was disappointed. “All right, man. I love you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Anna Maria Island, Florida, May 13

  Avery sighed as Wes’s leased pickup pulled out for Orlando on Monday morning. She never would have believed it, but she was glad to have the house to herself for the next five days. She bent and stretched her back. It was tight, as were her legs, and she suspected she was sore from standing so many hours the past few days—cooking, washing dishes, and tidying up.

  Some vacation! Ever since Mark and Gina’s talk, all she did anymore, or so it seemed, was play maid to the four friends as they “hung out” together each evening. It was a strange arrangement, with Emilia and Gina practically living back at their old house. Visit? Sure, thought Avery, but Wes had carried the make-yourself-at-home concept too far, leaving Avery to play mommy to four twenty-somethings. Well . . . three. Mark was different. He was there frequently, but only under duress. It was evident it pained him, but somehow Emilia had convinced him that such an arrangement would help the two barely-marrieds transition back into being friends.

  Avery became worried about the growing closeness between Wes and Emilia. Their positions on important issues were as different as Mark and Gina’s, actually even more so because of their stark differences on religion, a topic the two had not discussed. Avery feared that the same tragic heartache could befall her son if things continued to proceed as they were.

  Her one consolation was that Sunday had been an especially sweet day because Mark accompanied her and Wes to church. Both she and Wes noticed his interest in a telling of the Parable of the Lost Sheep. They followed him out to the foyer after church and opened the Bible to the parable. “Here’s where you can find that parable,” Wed said, handing Mark the book.

  “Yeah. I remember that story. Father Alexi taught it to me one night at the Rodriguez family’s apartment. The sheep are really people who are lost.”

  “That’s right.” Wes’s face beamed with joy, and, for a moment, Avery imagined him as a missionary in Peru.

  “And Jesus is the Good Shepherd who loved His sheep so much that He left His whole flock to find one who was missing.” Disappointment replaced Mark’s smile as he closed the book. “It’s a beautiful idea.”

  “It’s more than an idea, Mark. It’s true. It’s still true.”

  “Maybe . . . for some.”

  “He reaches out to everyone. Always. Sometimes we just don’t recognize it, and usually He sends someone else to be His hands. To find us.”

  “And then, some of us get lost and no one finds us until it’s too late, because we’ve stumbled along, trying to find our way on our own. We make choices and turn corners until we can’t find our way back to where we were, and we don’t know where we want to head next.”

  “It’s never too late to try again, Mark. We’ll help you.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “When I was a kid, I prayed that Father Alexi would come looking for me and find me again, but he never came. I just figured I wasn’t worth enough to him or to God for him to leave his congregation to chase me down. All I had was Gina and her family. Now I’ve even lost them. No matter how many times I think I’ve found my way home, I just end up more alone.”

  “What if we’re the ones who were sent to find you?” Avery asked.

  Mark gave her a sideways glance.

  “Come back with us next week. See how you feel.”

  He stalled, holding her in his gaze, but she did not shrink. After a few seconds, he smiled broadly and said, “I’ll think about it.”

  The memory still made Avery smile.

  She had an early breakfast invitation from George, but even that happy event couldn’t erase the dread she felt as she glanced at her computer. She’d lost her inspiration again and hadn’t been able to write a worthy word in days. She didn’t want her previously good mood to be ruined so she rushed upstairs to dress and then headed to George’s place.

  She turned off Route 41 onto a side road that led to a gravel lane surrounded by heavy construction. In the midst of this upheaval sat George’s little cottage. It was sorely in need of repairs, and the roof’s remaining shingles were curled and faded. Some of the siding panels were broken; some were missing and replaced by wood. In odd contrast to the rickety house, the flower beds were magnificent, with bursts of colors and lush green foliage growing in just the right places. A copper kettle, streaming with purple and yellow petunias, hung from the faded front door, and the entire yard was lovingly manicured. Avery marveled at how this man, who was rumored to be sitting on a real-estate gold mine, lived like a pauper. Had she believed he was not merely unconventional but truly as poor as his outward circumstances indicated, she would have contributed something instead of further burdening his budget.

  Before she reached the neatly swept porch, George was out front reaching for her hand. “You came! I’m so pleased. Come in, Avery. Come inside! Breakfast is nearly ready.”

  The cottage’s interior was freshly painted in white, and though the furnishings were old, they were well cared for and handsomely arranged, with horse figurines present in every possible place.

  “Sit!” George encouraged as he rolled up a long hose he obviously used to water his many house plants. “I knew you’d come. Some say they will and then cancel, but I knew you’d come, Avery.” He poured batter and cooked three pink pancakes, which he placed on Avery’s plate. Then he set a dish of peach something before her. Soon, a bottle of thin syrup was set in place beside a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. Obviously pleased as punch, George sat down and blessed the food.

  “Dig in!” came immediately after “amen.” George waited expectantly for Avery’s reaction. She took a bite of the pancakes, and her eyebrows rose in support. Then she washed the bite down with a gulp of juice and spooned up some peaches. “It’s wonderful, George!”

  He smiled with delight and began to eat as they bantered on about his menu.

  “What kind of pancakes are these?” Avery asked.

  “Raspberry, but you can make them with any flavor of Kool-Aid. Just throw a pack of that dry mix in the batter, a little sugar, and voilà! I make my juice from oranges I grow myself, and that cobbler is just a can of store-
bought peaches thickened with a little cornstarch and poured over leftover biscuits. I don’t like to waste anything, but I do like my food to have a good flavor.”

  Avery smiled whimsically. “Kool-Aid pancakes? Who’d have thought?”

  “Good, eh? There’s a fine story behind them, too.” He tipped his head shyly. “You may have heard that I squandered my winnings after the accident at the track, all but this piece of property. I was feeling sorry for myself and drank to deal with it. I was stone drunk when I met my Sophie. Her dad was a horse trainer, so she’d grown up around horses, same as me, and she remembered who and what I was. I guess that’s something women have—that hope to make a man better. Well, she performed her magic on me. We were soon married, and I was working steady at the stables.” A contented smile graced his lips.

  “Our two kids came lickety-split. We had this little house, but we could hardly pay the utilities and find money for groceries, so we mostly ate what Sophie grew, and we learned to make do. Sophie brought the kids by work one particular race day. How they loved the horses and watching all the jockeys ride out in their pretty silks! I’d tell them stories about my career, and suddenly I’d be special in their eyes.” His eyes began to mist. “Well, that day there was a big breakfast buffet for the press and the owners, and when my little ones saw all that food, so fancy and colorful, they begged me to get them a plate, seeing as I was once a jockey too.” He laughed sadly. “I was no longer welcome in that circle, but I promised to make them a splendid feast when we got home.

  “All day I thought about what was likely sitting on that buffet table, and what we had in the pantry that I could use to duplicate those treasures. That night we had quite a time. I spread jam on thin grape Kool-Aid pancakes, rolled them up, and sprinkled them with powdered sugar. We never ate another plain pancake again after that. Then, I took a can of chicken soup, every leftover in the fridge, and a can or two of green beans and told them I was making an exotic dish called . . .”

  “Slumgullion?” Avery offered with a grimace.

  George laughed at her expression. “Don’t knock it till you try it. My kids just stirred everything on their plate together anyway, leastwise the mashed potatoes, corn, and peas, so I thought, ‘Why not?’ and I beat them to it plus added a few more things.”

  “Did they eat it?”

  “Eat it? They inhaled it! Got so that they started wanting to make it themselves. They’d spend a day scouring the fridge and the cupboards deciding what to throw in that night. It became a family contest—to see who could whip up the most exotic pot of slumgullion!”

  Avery leaned back and wished she had opened her kitchen to little hands more often.

  George leaned in close. “As the kids got older and noticed the differences between what they had and what others had, I got more creative, of course, but I learned an important lesson. Getting by was less about what you had and more about how what you had was presented. My house is old and rundown. I know that. I can’t afford to make many repairs, so I do what I can to make it nice. Now, instead of folks thinking I’m a poor old coot, they think I’m an eccentric.”

  His lips pressed into a thin smile. “Truth is, when Sophie took sick, insurance paid for the hospitals and medicines, but there were out-of-pocket costs. When the doctors told me there was no hope, I found nontraditional options, but insurance wouldn’t pay for them. I was desperate to try anything, so I sold this place to a developer, only I made them give me a lifetime interest in the place. I can stay until I die, then it’s theirs to do with as they please.”

  “So you don’t own the land?”

  “Not an inch. My efforts kept her around for a while longer, but the greatest cost was to poor Sophie. I carted her from one doctor to another. My kids begged me to stop. Said I was making her suffer worse, but I was so bent on saving her, I kept on until they couldn’t bear it anymore. They finally left, only coming back for her funeral. I never saw them again after that. In the end I lost everyone—Sophie and my kids.”

  He grabbed a napkin and blew his nose. “I kept thinking my love for Sophie would earn us a miracle, but I wasn’t thinking right. I should have focused on making those days easier for her. I wish I’d shown her I would be all right, so she could’ve gone in peace. Instead, I clung to her so desperately, like a frightened child. I suppose she thought I’d learned nothing from her in our twenty-two years together. Instead, she watched our family rip apart, and she submitted to everything I asked of her. She suffered so much, until her very last night.”

  Avery thought he was reading pages from her own journal. She got an idea. “George, would you let me write your life story?”

  Avery canceled her shift at the museum and hurried home to start yet another new book. The pages came easily, along with a flood of emotions that took her back to her earlier work. She began writing a love story that so differed and yet so paralleled her own. The facts of George’s life were conveniently chronicled in a racing book he loaned her, and she was easily able to access additional material on Hialeah’s website. Still, it was the essence of George’s life that seemed easiest for her to put on paper. He was an extraordinary man but a relatively simple one, and feeling that she understood the passions that drove his life, she was able to write seventeen pages in almost no time at all. She felt so certain of her new direction that she emailed what she had to her editor, explaining the change in her project.

  “Are you sure this is where you want to go, Avery? This is your third new project and outside your usual fan base.”

  “I’m certain about this project, Leah.”

  “I do like what I’m reading, but I think we should consider a pen name on this one.”

  The very same thought occurred to Avery. She hung up the phone, leaned back in her chair, and spun around before popping up and pouring some salad mix into a bowl. She added some of this and that from the fridge, and as she drizzled dressing over the top, she thought of George’s slumgullion. At that moment, her heart confirmed that she was on track again, perhaps for the first time in years.

  She decided to check her email. There was nothing from Teddie. Too busy with the grandkids, Avery assumed. But there were two messages from Gabriel, three from Wes, and one each from Luke and Jamie. She started with Luke’s since he was the child most on her mind of late.

  * * *

  Hey. I’m doing good. Sorry I haven’t returned your calls. I went camping with some friends last weekend, and things are crazy at the orchard right now. So don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a few days. If I can get away, I might head up to Bear Lake this weekend for some R & R. I’m fine and yes, I’ll make sure the house is locked up tight.

  Love, Luke

  * * *

  She opened Jamie’s message next. There were five long paragraphs about her last doctor’s visit, but the primary topic was her worry over her youngest brother.

  * * *

  Have you spoken with Luke lately? I didn’t want to upset you, but he’s avoiding me and Brady, Mom. I’m worried about him.

  * * *

  Avery bit her lip, questioning the wisdom of leaving Luke behind, wondering if, in coming to Florida to mend one child, she’d sacrificed another. She wrote:

  * * *

  Luke,

  I’m glad you’re doing “good” and keeping busy, but please call Jamie and me. We need to connect with you and hear your sweet voice. It’s a mom thing. You’ll just have to deal with having two moms for now as Jamie is practicing on you. Call me!

  Love, Mom

  * * *

  And in addition to two pages of comments to Jamie about the baby, she wrote:

  * * *

  I haven’t heard much from Luke either. He wrote that his orchard duties are keeping him very busy right now. I’ve given him notice to call both of us. Let’s keep tabs on him, but try not to worry about anything but my grandchild.

  * * *

  Wes’s emails were updates on work, sprinkled around a request from Emi
lia via Wes for Avery’s recipe and official bio for the cookbook. Avery opened a few files, hit send, and reported back to her son that her task was completed.

  She was surprised by how excited she was at the thought of multiple emails from Gabriel. She clicked on the newest message from him and read:

  * * *

  Forgive me for blurring the lines of our friendship.

  Please ignore that last email. I was in a mood.

  * * *

  Avery was both confused and intrigued. She opened the second email from Gabriel and realized it had been sent days earlier than the other. She read it through twice. The first time made her a little melancholy, dredging up similar feelings of loneliness and being out of synch, but upon her second reading, it felt like a plea for a friend, not just a literary sounding board but a real friend, and that thought both appealed to her and worried her.

  * * *

  Dear Gabriel,

  Forgive me for not writing sooner, but I just opened my email for the first time in a week. I’ve seen a lot of your beautiful girls lately. I don’t think you need to worry about them being angry over our arrangement. They come by often to visit. Work keeps all four of the kids busy during the week, of course, but I expect with the coming weekend I’ll watch them gather on the porch like the terns and probably act like them as well, eating and contentedly jabbering until dawn.

  I’ve been feeling somewhat like you lately . . . a little lonely and disconnected from who I remember being. I’d forgotten about Amethyst. Pushed it aside is probably more correct. It was written during a period of loneliness in the author’s life, and I always disliked it because of the sadness it stirred in me. Since Paul’s death, I wear my loneliness like a medal of courage, signaling that once upon a time, I dared to love greatly.