“Can’t or won’t?” asked Kimber. “C’mon, we can go across the street and get drinks. Hot cocoa.”
Across the street, the red lights of a sports bar flashed in the evening light. Sprinkles of rain blew through, dampening the front of British’s pale pink shirt. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was to spend the evening in a bar with half-drunk men hitting on her because of her suddenly thin wet T-shirt and lacy bra. She missed simpler times when Christian met her during a rainstorm with an umbrella. Funny, she thought with a soft smile, how the memory of him made her feel safe. “No, I’m going to brave the weather.”
The committee members had all pulled out of their spots, the twin streetlights brightening the empty parking spaces. Kimber craned her neck. “Where did you park?”
British lifted her hand and pointed adjacent to city hall. “I have been parked by the rec center all day. I came straight here after everyone left to go home.”
Lightning struck across the high school’s football field, illuminating the twin field goal posts. How many Friday nights during junior and senior years had she spent watching Southwood High’s game-winning field goals take place over there? Too many to count. British half smiled and shook the fond memory away.
The rain lifted enough so they didn’t have to shout between one other.
“You ought to get going,” British urged Kimber. “I’m going to try to make a break for—”
The words died at a loud crack. A clear, sharp, lightning bolt lit the dark sky right over the rec center. A transformer blew, sparks doing their best imitation of Fourth of July fireworks, and two seconds later, regardless of the downpour of rain, a fire broke out.
“Did that seriously just happen?”
Neither of the ladies moved. They both clung to each other. The building went up in smoke, much like British’s dreams.
* * *
Sunday morning, British found herself seated on a bicycle just outside the gates of the Magnolia Palace hotel. She’d been here before, competing in a few pageants when the roof on Southwood’s theater had leaked. There was something to be said about the old structures of her hometown. British inhaled deeply with pride, as if she had a connection with the building.
The fire at the rec center hadn’t just ruined an after-school hangout but also displaced a few of the neighbors next to the building, homes of the girls who were part of British’s STEM for GRITS.
Ramon Torres, owner of Magnolia Palace, had graciously offered up rooms at the boutique hotel for them to stay until their homes were fixed. The mayor-elect had recently won the hearts of the town but, more important, British’s close friend Kenzie Swayne’s, too. The two had married last summer.
British understood there was only one guest booked for the Thanksgiving week. More than likely, the man wanted his peace and quiet over the break and having a group of teenagers running through the hallways was not the ideal vacation. British wanted to soften the blow. The phone inside the pocket of her gray hoodie began to ring. British hopped off her bike seat to answer it, her pink fingernail sliding across the screen.
Kimber’s face appeared bright and cheerful, as usual. “Hey, my app says you’re at my uncle’s place.”
“That’s just creepy.”
“Creepy is having to get the girls together in some back alley looking for cans to collect for that STEM steamboat experiment in order to impress the judges,” said Kimber. “You’re standing outside the door waiting to ring the bell, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Uncle Ramon gave you permission to also use the hotel’s facilities so the girls can have space to work and concentrate without interruption. You don’t have to explain that to the other guest. I’ve texted you the code to the gate—only guests and employees have the info. The doors lock after midnight until someone is up and unlocks them or, great idea, a person with the code uses it.”
“I hear you,” British said with a half smile, “but I get what it’s like to want to be left alone. I just want to explain to the man, maybe even prepare him.”
Kimber huffed. “Whatever.”
“He’s a paying customer.”
“Whoever he is—” Kimber rolled her eyes “—he’ll get over it. What did he expect when he came to a hotel?” Someone in the background called her name.
Kimber looked over her shoulder and said something in Spanish. “All right, Brit, I got to get going, but I want to make sure you’re okay. I know the place is working with a skeleton crew since there’s only one guest booked.”
And here British was, about to interrupt this person’s day. Forcing a smile onto her face, British smoothed back the stray hairs that had come loose. “Thanks, Kimber. I’ll keep you updated.”
With that, the call disconnected and British inhaled the fall air. Finally, the rain had stopped. The last of the hurricane season rains brought in the cooler weather. Somewhere off in the distance someone was building a fire. British imagined a group of kids seated around the campfire, fluffy, fat marshmallows dangling from long branches and twigs, taunting the flames. One of the things British hated about living in an apartment. She couldn’t randomly make a traditional s’more.
Of course, she could head out to the country, to her parents’, for one, but that would end up with everyone fawning all over her. This time of year was difficult. The cooler weather meant hunting season and the memory of losing Christian earlier than she had ever expected. He was born with an enlarged heart, and no one had thought Christian would make it to his first birthday. He’d defied the odds, making it to twenty-three only to have a deer dart out onto County Road 17. British gulped down her bitter sadness. Given Christian’s congenital heart problem, the trauma had been too much. He’d survived the accident long enough to make a final joke about the irony and to assure British he loved her.
British cleared her throat and regained her bearings. She needed to secure the place for the girls. The children she and Christian never had the chance to have.
Bound with confidence from Kimber, British punched in the code to the gates and waltzed down the magnolia-lined path toward the old plantation-style home once owned by the Swayne family, now turned into a boutique hotel. Kenzie Swayne’s—British’s Tiara Squad gal pal—marriage to Ramon Torres right at the end of the summer had brought the home back into the family.
As children, everyone used to hang out here and swim in the lake behind the house. Ah, the memories, British thought to herself. The tires of her bicycle crunched on the fallen thick leaves of the magnolias. A wind howled through the tall trees and a shadow formed over the hotel.
“Time to face the dragons,” she said to herself. British parked her bike on the bottom step before grabbing the brown wicker basket filled with an assortment of cupcakes from the local bakery responsible for the extra curves on her hips. A couple of fall treats like the Cupcakery’s salted caramel pecan, stuffed spice apple, pumpkin swirl latte and the infamous Death-by-Chocolate cupcake always eased loneliness. And British knew that firsthand.
She took a deep breath, headed up the steps and reached for the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She remembered that the skeleton crew might not be working just yet.
Setting the wicker basket at her feet, British peered through one of the glass panels to the side of the red door as she pressed the doorbell. A chime set off across the polished hardwood floors of the lobby. The check-in station stood empty, the green lamp dark. Then she caught a glimpse of her reflection. She looked a mess in her bunched-up sweatshirt. How was she going to ask some stranger if he would mind her girls staying here during his vacation?
Fingers grasping the hem of the material, she pulled it over her head, but the hoodie locked around the thick ponytail at the back of her head. Groaning, she bent over and gave it a tug, slipping on one of the magnolia leaves scattered on the porch with the last breeze. Her left ankle hit the basket an
d, to catch herself, she stepped forward and walked straight into the door.
“Sonofabitch,” she hissed.
As the door latch clicked from the inside, British’s hands locked in their sleeves. The door opened halfway, revealing a square, masculine jawline of a man. Thing was, it wasn’t just any man. One jet-black brow arched in wonder while his full lips, surrounded by a close black beard, twisted upward with amusement. The muscle in his biceps twitched and emphasized the definition, making him appear as if a sculpted African god. Chiseled from copper and mahogany wood. The door covered half his face and body, but the exposed parts left her something that hadn’t happened in a long time...speechless.
Copyright © 2018 by Carolyn Hall
ISBN-13: 9781488082177
Another Chance with You
Copyright © 2018 by Jacquelin Thomas
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