Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection

by J. Kenner

  I sensed him moving a few paces forward, though.

  Searching.

  Leaning in.

  Taking another step or two nearer to me.

  My left elbow, draped in part over the armrest, was closest to him and to the revolving shelf he was spinning in that slow, deliberate way. I was determined not to look up, but he was so close. His loafers were in my direct line of vision.

  He inched even closer, his thigh brushing against my elbow. I just knew it was an intentional act. In that instant of epiphany, though, I lost my equilibrium. The big book I was holding wobbled. I grabbed at it, steadied it, but then dropped my pen, followed by several note cards and a couple of loose-leaf pages, which fluttered to the floor. I closed the book and bent to snatch my fallen items.

  He immediately kneeled to help, but I was faster. Once I righted myself, I found his face at eye level with mine.

  "Sorry," he mouthed, looking intense, uncomfortable, and so incredibly hot. Wow. I held my breath.

  Our gazes locked for a second longer, and I noted with a writer's observation the way his light brown lashes appeared to disappear as they moved away from his eyelids. I struggled to think of an appropriate metaphor, but he angled his torso toward the bookshelf again and rose to full height before I could complete the thought.

  The blonde, with the ever-present radar of somebody on perma-alert to potential threats, suddenly focused her attention on us. Ignoring me and addressing him, Cherry asked, "What are you doing?"

  "Just looking at titles over here." He grasped a random volume, running his thumb along its spine.

  With a shrill laugh that sounded like the scratch of a fingernail she said, "Oh, no, you're not. You just want to see what she's writing." Her eyes washed over me coldly, then she flipped her hair back and emitted another pseudo giggle.

  I gazed directly at the guy, expecting some kind of reaction from him.

  Expressionless at first, he caught my eye once more before turning away--his face reddening. Then, trailing behind her, I heard him protest, "No, I wasn't ..." And with that, they avoided me for the rest of my visit.

  When I'd finished flipping through the book for inspiration and had jotted down the author's name and the title for reference, I returned the large volume to its shelf. I snagged one last glimpse of the couple, huddled in an aisle between two long stacks, before I walked out the door and into the spring night.

  I thought that would be the end of it. After all, I lived in the heart of the city--an enormous, frenetic place. Any chance of running into Hunk and Cherry again in downtown Chicago would be unlikely at best.

  The problem, though, was that I couldn't seem to forget them.

  They haunted me like an unsolved mystery. Like a mental puzzle my brain had to unravel. I found myself wondering what was going to happen to them next. Were they falling deeper in love and on to a greater commitment? Or, was that day the pinnacle in their short relationship and had things already begun to break apart?

  Over the next several weeks, whenever I would pass by Between the Pages, I would stop in, head to the second floor, and meander down the aisles in partial search for one or both of them. Not intending to speak to either of them, of course, even if our paths should meet. No. I just wanted to observe and try to determine what had transpired in their romantic saga. Like Days of Our Lives, only in 3-D. But I never encountered them on those visits.

  Clearly, the days of my life were lacking in excitement.

  I'd been working diligently as a part-time magazine freelancer, a part-time closet novelist, and a full-time neurotic for over four years. I was long convinced my chance of breaking into big-market fiction was minuscule, but I devoured how-to books on writing a bestseller and drank gallons of coffee while composing my first full-length novel, with cursory notes for a sequel.

  I primarily paid the bills, however, by writing regularly for about seven different publications of varying status, exclusively nonfiction. It was a dry existence--research, write, edit, send--with very little whimsical fiction to entertain me on those nights when I lamented my lack of both fame and any kind of love life. I did have a few short stories published in obscure literary journals, but it had been months since I'd had the time or the energy to attempt writing another.

  Suddenly, though, I was inspired to draft something totally different. Something light and ... romantic. Pen, paper, and my own life intersected. Reality and fantasy converged on the page and within my mind.

  The bookstore couple began to join me as I researched articles online or took the commuter train to conduct interviews in the suburbs.

  They worked out alongside of me at the tiny gym in my apartment complex's basement.

  They laughed and cried with me while watching the latest soap-opera intrigues.

  They even ate next to me on my solitary park bench and returned with me throughout that May to my ant-infested studio apartment.

  Before long, I knew everything about them.

  Well, I imagined I knew, which--to a writer--was essentially the same thing.

  Turned out, Hunk and Cherry had first met about six months before at a company basketball game. They were each cheering on players from the public defender's office where the guy (I named him "Neil") worked. He'd graduated from law school determined to be one of those good-guy underdogs. A man who toiled for humanity in a largely pro bono way, seeking justice for all. He'd been laboring as an underling at the office for nearly a year after finishing law school out East. He was from there--Ipswich, Massachusetts, specifically--and his family had made their money in banking and stock trade. He felt he was finally able to share his own good fortune by helping others.

  Cherry (aka "Jessica"), well, she came from money, too, but it was of the alimony/trust-fund variety. Her mom had a habit of marrying wealthy older men and divorcing them before they could say "prenuptial agreement." It was a fifty-fifty asset split out in California, Jessica's home state, and her mom was on her fourth property acquisition there. No wonder the poor girl was so insecure. So weirdly possessive.

  Jessica worked in sales at a cosmetic company, which was why her makeup always had to be perfect. Her best friend and colleague, Anita, was married to a guy named Bryan, another lawyer at Neil's office and a six-foot two guard on their firm's pickup basketball team. After several months of casually meeting up at various sporting and social functions, Neil heard through Bryan--who got the word via Anita--that Jessica had a crush on him. Neil, to be nice (and since she wasn't actually horrible looking), asked Jessica out. She, of course, nearly pole-vaulted at the invitation.

  On their first date, Neil took her to dinner at an upscale Szechuan restaurant and then out to see a romantic comedy. He liked her, and Jessica worked hard to maintain appearances. A startlingly domineering streak and more than a hint of jealousy would find its way into her voice on occasion, but she did her best to minimize that and she scored a second date with him. That one culminated in a long kiss goodnight, which managed to erase--temporarily--the newly forming doubts from Neil's mind.

  Then Neil was thrown a curve.

  Bryan and Anita, wanting to promote the fledgling relationship, pressed him into service as a host. It started when they invited Neil and Jessica to their house. Even though the event had been billed as casual, the meal was lavish, since Bryan took great delight in the culinary arts. A few years older than Neil and a few levels up in the office hierarchy, Bryan was well versed in the evening's wine selection. He made the crab and scallion appetizer dip and had grilled the filet to tender perfection--even offering a delectable mushroom sauce as an accompaniment.

  Anita did her part as well with an impressive seven-layer fiesta salad, sage-seasoned wild rice, and a homemade apricot torte.

  Neil was floored by this. He usually microwaved his food or had it delivered.

  Protocol, of course, required reciprocation, so he masked his reluctance and invoked a sincere-sounding invitation to the other couple for the following Saturday night.
>
  Nearly a week passed. Not yet frantic but feelings of worry escalating, Neil raced to change out of his work clothes, asked Jessica to meet him at the local bookstore, and together they spent the first hour of their Friday night in search of helpful information.

  This was where I came in. Well, a character very much like me.

  Neil bumped into me on purpose, and somewhat more dramatically than in the original scene, but instead of turning away when Jessica said, "You just want to see what she's writing," Neil replied spiritedly, "Yes. Maybe she's got the book we need."

  I smiled, the epitome of warmth and graciousness, and said, "Perhaps another book will help you, but would you mind if I offered a suggestion?"

  Neil agreed at once. Even Jessica, walking toward me with scorpion-like wariness, appeared politely attentive.

  Upon hearing about the event they were planning, I drew upon my extensive background knowledge, obtained from so many years of information gathering, and recommended a book series that had full menus along with a coordinating selection of song choices to add the right musical atmosphere to the evening.

  "My sister is married to a school principal," I told them. "She does a lot of entertaining and swears by these sets." This was true, by the way.

  Well, of course they were grateful, even more so after I helped them find the menu/music sets on the shelf.

  "So," Jessica said, not quite able to expel the snottiness from her voice, "how do you know so much? Do you, like, work here?"

  "Oh, no. I'm a writer." The pride accompanying this announcement always made me stand up straighter. "And I spend a lot of time at this store ... improving my mind through extensive reading." I doubted she'd catch the Jane Austen reference ("extensive reading" being one of Mr. Darcy's requirements of an accomplished woman), but I tossed it in there anyway. Take that, you uncivil trollop.

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  Before she could speak again, Neil insisted on making formal introductions. He told me their names, and I told them mine, as well as a little bit about the article I was researching. "So you see, nothing I wrote down would have been of much interest to you, unless you were planning to have a group of three-year-olds at your dinner party."

  Neil laughed at my joke and I grinned at him, certain that Jessica missed it since she was playing stupidly with the straps of her expensive handbag. He told me they were going to grab a late dinner and, while they were at it, select one of the recommended meal combinations to make the following night.

  "Well, good luck," I replied, hoping to come across as encouraging. "I'm sure everything will turn out beautifully."

  Jessica nodded, growing a fraction friendlier as she realized my departure was imminent. Neil, however, grasped my hand and said with genuineness and warmth, "Thank you, Lily, for your help! You rescued us from the complexity of Martha Stewart."

  We both laughed at that and, then, said goodbye. Within moments, I was out the door, pleased with myself for being of assistance to someone so nice and--well, let's face it--so handsome.

  Anyway, weeks went by and I was as busy as ever, bringing in a higher-than-usual income from my articles and making tremendous headway on my novel at last. On occasion, my mind wandered back to the evening I met Neil and Jessica. I wondered about them--him in particular. How had their Saturday dinner gone? I wished there would have been a way I could ask. Discover more. Or, better yet, run into him again. My love life was the only thing that had remained stagnant. Aside from some promising flirtations at the gym, which amounted to nothing, the only romantic overtures I experienced at all in recent weeks were in my imagination.

  One rainy Wednesday, I was at Between the Pages--this time trying to dry off from the inside out with their strongest espresso. I wasn't actually depressed, because things were going pretty well in my life overall, but I'd managed to get into one of those reflective moods that turn melancholy if not immediately remedied. I needed a prescription in the form of some good escapist fiction.

  I'd just read the first page of a Wisconsin author's debut romance with awe and envy--more or less equally mixed--when I caught a peripheral movement and looked up.

  "Lily?" the voice asked. My ears registered its owner sooner than my eyesight.

  "Oh, hi, Neil," I said, surprised, though not at all unpleasantly so. It was funny how you could forget certain details about people: his smile displayed two fabulous, but previously overlooked, dimples. His eyes were a piercing, Chris Hemsworth kind of blue. How had I missed that? What I said aloud, though, was simply, "How are you?"

  "Good, good. Thought that was you over here. Working on another article?"

  "No, not this time." I pointed to the books in front of us. "Just admiring the narrative styles of these authors."

  "Hmm," he said, nodding as he cast his eyes along the rows of new titles. Then, he looked up at me. As before, I was startled by the intensity of his gaze. My mind went blank for a nanosecond before I remembered.

  "Hey, how did the big dinner turn out?"

  "Oh, yeah. Everything worked well, thanks to you." And he proceeded to tell me details about the menu they'd selected and the accompanying music. "Those sets were a great idea."

  "I'm so glad," I said, sincerity gushing forth and overflowing. But then Neil went silent, and I was left trying to figure a way out of the creeping awkwardness. "So, um, where's Jessica? Did she come with you tonight?" I swiveled from side to side, expecting her to materialize at any second.

  "No, um ... we haven't gotten together much these days. I haven't seen her at all, in fact, for a few weeks, so ..." Neil shrugged but didn't look particularly despondent about the situation.

  "Oh." I bobbed my head, struggling to appear calm, empathetic, understanding. Internally, I was hip hopping.

  We moved on to other topics: the changeable summer weather, the state of world affairs and, in deference to our meeting place, good books we'd read recently. As I blathered on about some of my favorite romantic comedy authors, I could hear an odd, inflated tone hijack my voice and force it to rise to a delighted coo. Neil looked duly impressed with my monologue before embarking upon one of his own--featuring thriller writers and romantic suspense. I listened, attentive as a spellbound disciple.

  All that remained now was the long-hoped-for setup for a future date.

  Neil pointed to my espresso. "Hey, I love those, too. Did you get a double shot?"

  "How did you know?"

  He smiled. "That's the only way to do it. Decaf, herbal tea, and the like--those are for weenies."

  I laughed and told him I agreed.

  "Well, maybe we can grab a couple sometime soon," he said, "and, you know, just talk for a while."

  "Yeah, I'd like that," I replied, beaming my best grin at him. Then, with pride at my casual assertiveness, I added, "I need to browse through some materials on promoting heart health this weekend. I was thinking of coming back maybe Sunday morning to check out their books, so if you want to join me--"

  "Definitely!" Neil broke in. "What time were you thinking of getting here?"

  "Maybe ten or ten thirty. I only need to do about a half hour of work."

  "Why don't I drop by at about ten thirty then? If you still have some stuff to finish up, you can spend as much time as you need. There's always a lot to look at here. Then, whenever you're ready, we can take our espressos to go, stroll a bit if the day's clear, maybe even grab some lunch or something later ..." He shot me one of his preppy lawyer grins. I was charmed.

  We quickly exchanged cell numbers and then parted company with matching smiles and nearly matching fantasies of eternal love, which now seemed closer than ever.

  And this was where my imagined tale concluded, complete with all the hopefulness and optimism that filled the heart of every romantic. That blissful, mystical time in a relationship's beginning, before anything could swoop down to erode the magic of infatuation. Only in soap operas, fairy tales, or love ballads by eighties hair bands could one find a rival to such a g
lorious moment. Oh, the sweet sensation!

  I adored my little love story and called it "Browsing."

  After several revisions and at least seventeen mocha frappuccinos, I submitted it to a regional magazine--Midwest Fiction Forum: Stories for the Modern Genre Writer--a journal that published monthly issues in print as well as weekly features online. They'd accepted a poem of mine about two years before, so I was positively inclined toward their publication. But what I liked best about them was this: their response time was a shockingly prompt three weeks or less.

  I sweated out the days, always with that fluttery impatience just below my lungs whenever a new email would appear. Then one Monday, sometime in late June, I got a ping in my inbox. It was from the magazine ... I crossed my fingers and clicked open the message.

  An acceptance!

  "Yes!" I exclaimed to no one but the ants in my otherwise-empty apartment. My story would not only be on the web, it would be included in one of the print issues, too.

  After celebrating my good fortune alone with a dark Colombian roast/brandy concoction I mixed, I added this publishing acquisition to my short list of fiction credits. Cheerfully, I marked my calendar with an asterisk and the word "Browsing" next to the notes box for September.

  In the weeks that followed, I continued to stop by my favorite bookstore with some frequency. Admittedly, thoughts of Neil and Jessica always accompanied me there, but I'd grown less hopeful of ever seeing either of them again as the summer progressed.

  One time, shortly after my birthday in mid-July, I thought I spotted Jessica. I saw someone, anyway, who was a leggy blonde with an identical designer handbag. Could it have been a coincidence?

  The woman was near the first floor information desk with her back to me, and I was on the escalator heading down. By the time I reached the ground level, whoever she was had vanished. But, since we'd never actually spoken, I supposed I wouldn't have known what to say if I'd met up with her face to face anyway. I was pretty sure she wouldn't have had a clue who I was.

  My romantic short story came out in the September issue as scheduled, and I was pleased to see my name in print for something this lighthearted and creative. I pulled out my box of novel notes and began sifting through them at more regular intervals--gathering, organizing, refining ideas. I could feel my confidence in storytelling growing.