That Second Chance

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Those who belittle and make others feel worse will feel the ungodly wrath of my curse.” Snapping her head forward, she eerily points to all of us, and we draw close together as the wind blasts us from behind. “Listen to me, to the words I have spoken.” Her voice grows stronger, louder, more sinister. “From this day on, your love will be broken. It isn’t until your minds have matured that the weight of this curse will forever be cured.”

  She slams her arms down to her sides, and the wicked winds die down, the litter that was whirling around us like some kind of tornado feathering down to the street. The palm reader stands idly, eyes lasering in on us.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Reid and Brig are gripping tightly to my arms; Rogan’s knuckles are white as they clutch Brig’s shoulder. I scan each of my brothers, making sure no one has turned into a rooster head or any crazy shit like that. Together, we take a deep breath, and—

  Reid starts laughing again, but nervously this time. “Okay, lady, thanks for the ‘curse.’” He uses air quotes and then nods in the opposite direction. “Pretzels, here we come.”

  I cast one last glance at the palm reader, eyes boring in on our backs, a chill running up and down my spine.

  Rogan and I follow close behind as Brig brings up the rear. “Hey, wait up,” he calls out. “You guys, I think she was serious back there. She actually cursed us with broken love.”

  I bite my tongue as we round a corner, not wanting to project my niggling, alcohol-induced fears on my younger brother, but honestly, that entire situation back there was pretty alarming. Where the hell did all that wind come from?

  But being the protective older brother, I wrap my arm around Brig’s neck and pull him close to me. “There is no way you’re going to believe that, are you?”

  “I mean, there was wind and shit.” Yeah, the wind got me too, bud.

  Rogan rolls his eyes. “It’s called coincidental timing. There’s no way she controlled the wind and set some crazy curse on us. That just doesn’t happen in real life.”

  “But what if she really did?”

  Wanting to ease the anxiety in my very gullible little brother, I shake my head. “Brig, I can promise you, that palm reader gets her jollies from scaring tourists. Believe me, there is no broken-love curse. Okay?”

  Five days later . . .

  “You’re such a good boy, Griffin.”

  Mrs. Davenport looks up at me as she perches on her mauve wingback chair. Hands steepled under her chin, gratefulness shining brightly in her eyes. It might not seem like much, but this right here is why I wanted to become a volunteer firefighter: to help out the people of my small town.

  I twist the cover back onto the smoke detector, pocket the old battery, and hop down from the chair I borrowed from Mrs. Davenport’s little kitchenette set. She lives in a quaint brick apartment building known in Port Snow, Maine, as Senior Row. It’s where all the singles over the age of seventy go to live. It isn’t very big, but they have their fun during the day in the courtyard, hit up the early bird specials out on Main Street, and turn out the lights by eight.

  “Anytime, Mrs. Davenport. You know I’m here to help.”

  I pack up my things quickly, trying to not give Mrs. Davenport an opening for her usual long conversations.

  “Am I your last stop for the day?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, lovely.” She moves some old crossword puzzles clipped from newspapers off the chair beside her wingback and pats the seat. “Why don’t you stay for a bit? Tell me about your wild adventure in New Orleans.”

  I knew that was coming. Happens every time. A week ago, she held down Jim Bryan for over two hours, going into detail about her arthritic hip. Poor guy. He missed dinner and bedtime with his kids. And instead of kissing their little cherub faces good night, he wound up helping Mrs. Davenport into her room after she conked out midsentence.

  I’m not going to let that happen to me.

  No way in hell.

  Wincing, I close my small toolbox and straighten up. “Oh man, I would love to, Mrs. Davenport, but I have a few houses on the way back to the station I have to check up on, or else I would stay.”

  Eyeing me suspiciously, she shakes her finger in my direction. “Griffin Knightly, how dare you lie to an old lady? You just want to go see that wife of yours, don’t you?”

  Desperately.

  Since I’ve gotten back, she’s been on the night shift at the hospital, and our paths have only crossed for a few short, stolen moments. I want nothing more than to lie in bed, snuggle up next to my wife, and watch a movie.

  “You got me, Mrs. Davenport. The missus is waiting. Do you mind? Maybe we can catch up another time.”

  Shakily, she stands, using her cane for assistance. Patting me gently on the forearm, she says, “That sounds nice. I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “No need. I can see myself out. Thank you, though, and if you need anything, let me know.”

  She smiles sweetly and sits back in her chair. “Thank you, Griffin. Say hello to your folks for me.”

  “Will do.”

  I’m out the door in five steps, reaching for my phone just as it starts to buzz.

  Wifey is written across the screen.

  Smiling, I haul my toolbox down the street as I answer the phone. “Hey, babe.”

  There’s silence and then a male voice. “Griffin.” I know that voice. It’s Larson, one of the EMTs in town.

  “Larson, what the hell are you doing with Claire’s phone?”

  “Man . . .” His voice sounds tight, almost as if he’s been crying. “I don’t know . . . shit, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “Tell me what?” The hairs rise on the back of my neck.

  “It’s Claire . . .”

  I stop midstride, my feet feeling like they’re being weighed down by cement, my chest seizing, wrapping around my heart, my lungs. The air is squeezed viciously from my body as a piece of me slowly breaks in two.

  Those words, those eerie words, reverberate in my mind, spoken with such malice, with unpredictable promise . . .

  From this day on, your love will be broken.

  Rattling around in my head, echoing, spoken over and over again. The wind picks up, smacking me hard in the chest, and leaves twirl around me, a sense of dread looming over my now-shadowed heart.

  There’s no way . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  GRIFFIN

  Two years later . . .

  Beep, beep, beep.

  “Ughhhhhh,” I groan into my pillow. The blaring sound of my alarm went off just as my dream was getting good. Why does it always seem to go off when I’m about to win an unspecified major award? I’ve always won something, but I never get to find out what kind of prize it is. Who knows? It could be the leg lamp from A Christmas Story.

  But hell if I’ll ever find out.

  Pressing the stop button on my phone, I roll onto my back, my eyes adjusting to the morning summer light drifting through the sheer white curtains hanging in my bedroom.

  Like every morning, I glance to my right and take in the untouched pillow, the empty nightstand, the opposite side of the bed forever cold.

  Even though it’s been two years, the pain is still there.

  The guilt.

  The weight of what-ifs playing over and over in my head.

  What if she hadn’t had such a strenuous job?

  What if I missed a sign?

  What if I had been there?

  What if I’d never gone to New Orleans?

  I shake the negative thoughts out of my head, not wanting to start my day in another emotionally distraught stupor.

  I swing my feet to the side of the bed and press the palm of my hand to my eye, wiping away any leftover sleep. Taking a deep breath, I hop out of bed, my feet landing on the newly refurbished hardwood floors of my little Cape Cod–style house. Padding across the floor, the summer heat not yet suffocating the top floor in the early-morning hours,
I make my way to my bathroom, flip on the shower, take a leak, and then glance at myself in the mirror.

  Old.

  Yup, I look fucking old.

  I lean forward and inspect myself, letting the shower heat up.

  I’m thirty, but I don’t feel thirty.

  My bones ache.

  My ankles crack with every step I take.

  My back is two bunker gears away from giving out on me.

  And those wrinkles near my eyes. Fuck, they’re bad. Deep and angry, aging me at least ten years.

  My throat pulses, making me let out a few rasping coughs straight from my semiblackened lungs. Two days ago we put out a fire in an abandoned warehouse along the harbor, and I’m still feeling the effects.

  Usually my voice recovers quickly after I put out a fire, but this time, it seems like the smoke settled in my throat. Grainy and weathered, that’s how I sound.

  Sighing, I step into the shower, letting the water cascade through my short brown hair and down my back, but only for a few seconds—I don’t grant myself much time to get ready in the morning, since I prefer to sleep.

  I’m in and out in five minutes, drying off and then putting on my usual summer uniform of jeans and a crew neck shirt with a giant lobster on the front. In bold lettering, it reads, The Lobster Landing—my family’s gift shop.

  The gift shop and bakery is famous, not just in Port Snow but throughout Maine. My parents have built their little fudge shop into a confectionary and artisanal haven, patronized by locals and tourists alike. It’s a must-see attraction on Maine’s tourism website—number three, to be exact.

  And not only is it our family business, but it’s mine to run now; well, at least unofficially it’s mine to run. Someday it will solely be mine. My parents still handle the books, but day-to-day operations come down to me. Which is why I’m up early every day—sometimes after a long night of firefighting—heading into the shop to make sure everything is ready for a fresh batch of tourists.

  Taming my short strands, I run a quick towel through my hair, throw a little pomade in my hand, do a quick style, and brush my teeth, and I’m out the door.

  The morning haze lifts off the soaked grass from light showers the night before, the sun barely peeking up past the crest of the ocean as Port Snow natives mill about, preparing their shops and restaurants for the day’s traffic.

  The walk to the shop is short and brisk, the familiar sounds of the waves crashing into the rocky harbor like a joyful prelude to what the day will bring. My spirits can’t help but lift as I approach the Landing. It’s the only white building on the block, covered in white shake shingles with vibrant red trim, showcasing a distinct teal door. Quaint flower boxes full of blossoming red and green hues spill from its windows, and I’m reminded of just how far we’ve come, the kind of legacy my parents built for future generations of Knightlys.

  Jen, my older sister, is there to greet me when I reach the front door. She’s sitting on the kitschy lobster-shaped bench in front of the shop, legs crossed, coffee mug in hand—she doesn’t believe in to-go cups—and one of her fingers twirling her long brown hair, which is held tight in a ponytail.

  “Good morning.” She stands when I reach her.

  “You could have opened, you know.”

  She takes a sip of her steaming coffee. “I know, but I didn’t feel like it. Zach’s in charge of the kids this morning, so I wanted to enjoy some silence. It’s his turn to deal with the twins from hell and their demonic brother.”

  Unlocking the front door, I let my sister in first, a smile on my face. “Braxton is demonic now?”

  Jen goes straight to the fudge counter, where she starts unwrapping all thirty of our unique flavors, including key lime pie, maple walnut, and candy explosion—to name a few—while I head to the back office. “I swear to God, it’s like living with you fools all over again. Even though he’s only five, he already has the Knightly-brother blood running through his veins. And let me tell you this”—she pauses and points at me—“the minute that boy starts sticking my underwear in the freezer like you four cretins used to, he’s moving in with you.”

  From the back of the shop, I bring a fresh cash drawer to the old-fashioned register resting at the front of the shop. It’s original to the store and still fully functioning, adding an extra bit of historical charm to the space.

  “I take no responsibility for Braxton’s bad behavior. You know that’s Brig and Reid’s doing.”

  “But he likes you best.”

  “Can’t blame the guy for having good taste.” I wink at Jen just in time to see her roll her eyes.

  “Dad got the new fudge catalog in.”

  Oh Christ.

  It’s the worst piece of mail that could ever arrive at my parents’ house. It’s like Christmas Day for my dad but pure horror for the rest of us.

  A bound booklet of seasonal fudge recipes from the supplier, full of colorful graphics, it sweeps our dad, the consummate dreamer of confectionary creations, right off his feet.

  Highlighters are uncapped.

  Notes are taken.

  Endless fudge fantasies are created.

  And the family is put to work not only making the fudge but eating it.

  Oh, woe is me, right? Poor Griffin has to eat fudge. Well, when you’ve been eating it for about thirty years, there’s a limit to how much fudge you can actually digest.

  I’ve reached my limit, and so has Jen.

  Brig and Reid still have a few more years under their belts.

  And Rogan . . . well, the guy is a health nut and refuses to put any sort of sugary substance in his body. He hasn’t eaten a bite of fudge since 2007.

  “Mom couldn’t hide it before he got the mail?”

  Jen shakes her head, arranging flavor after flavor of our famous fudge on the marble counter, ready for taste testing and purchasing. “She knows better than to hide that thing again. Last time, when he found it in the trash, he didn’t let up for days about how she was stifling his creative flow. And he said he wanted to try out a few new recipes before the big Fall Lobster Fest.”

  Sounds about right.

  The Fall Lobster Fest is one of Port Snow’s largest attractions. It kicks off the season of pumpkin-spice lattes and apple-cider doughnuts, and every year, my dad goes all out, catering toward fall flavors, coming up with the theme for our booth, and creating an atmosphere of elegance and sophistication, showing off our wide variety of goods and the popularity of the Lobster Landing. It’s a huge deal, something I’ve always helped with but never headed up, something my dad still holds on to, unable to truly trust anyone to take it over.

  Moving on to the small bakery case beside the fudge, I wheel over the rolling baking racks that have fresh-from-the-oven baked goods our in-house baker, Craig, creates at three in the morning . . . every day.

  Scones.

  Cinnamon buns.

  Cider doughnuts.

  And all the turnovers your little heart desires.

  It’s one of my favorite parts of setting up the shop, the smell of fresh baked goods. Not to mention the specialty pies in the back just waiting to be boxed up and paid for.

  “So what’s the damage?” I ask, placing the scones on a white display platter with tongs. “How many new recipes are we going to have to try?”

  “Mom said only five.”

  “Only five? But we have thirty flavors already.”

  Jen gives me a pointed look, not even halfway through unloading all of the fudge. “You think I don’t know that? Mom said Dad was going to put some flavors in the fudge graveyard.”

  Ahh, the fudge graveyard, where old flavors go to rest. We only bring the dead flavors back out for special occasions. “Good.”

  “Yeah. Mom put the kibosh on adding any new flavors when we hit the thirty mark.”

  “That’s why we love her.”

  The bell that hangs over the front door chimes as Brig struts in, a breakfast sandwich in hand. The bell was installed when my par
ents first opened for business over thirty-five years ago, but now it’s only heard during the early hours of the morning, when it’s just my siblings and me—the store is usually too packed and noisy at any other time.

  “Morning,” Brig calls out, wearing the same lobster-emblazoned shirt as Jen and me, though his is a little more form fitting. “Thought I’d stop by to see if you guys need any help?” Casually, he makes his way around the shop, inspecting every detail. Running his finger along the clear glass bakery coolers, taking in the unique lobster shirts hanging on clothing racks, and even trying on our famous lobster-shaped oven mitts.

  Jen and I both do a double take, our mouths hanging slack with shock.

  Brig never comes in just to see if we need help, and never this early. He’s usually sleeping in at this hour, or at the garage, restoring old Mustangs, which he’s somehow turned into his full-time job.

  Taking the lead, I ask the question on the tips of both our tongues. “Why are you really here?”

  Shock and then insult pass through his eyes, and he clutches his chest as if I just wounded him. Spinning onto one of the red leather-upholstered stools that offer a small seating area near the coffee and tea, Brig gasps. “Can’t a darling brother come in on a Monday to see how his siblings are faring and to offer an extra hand during this busy tourist season?”

  Jen and I exchange glances. “No,” we say at the same time.

  Dramatically, Brig rolls his eyes, stacks his feet on the stool next to him, and stuffs the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth. “Saw a travel group last night over at the Lighthouse Restaurant,” he says through his full mouth. “A bunch of girls getting their master’s and taking a break from a tough summer buried in their books. I happened to overhear they were coming to the Landing for scones this morning. Wanted to help with the rush.”

  Yeah, “the rush.” I’m sure that’s the last thing on my lovestruck brother’s mind. Of all the Knightly brothers, Brig is the hopeless romantic. He’s relentless and thinks he’s going to find love in some off-chance way when he’s least expecting it.

  And yet he’s still single, still looking for “the girl” and driving us crazy while he searches.