Second Time Around

by Nancy Moser

  She shut her textbook. She couldn’t remember a thing she’d read the last half hour anyway. “I’ve been busy, Daddy.”

  “Today wasn’t a day to be busy, it was a day for the… you know.”

  He couldn’t even say it, yet he expected her to do it? “I didn’t go through with the abortion.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “You’re not planning on marrying the bum, are you? Because don’t expect me to spring for any have-to-get-married wedding. You told me he dumped you.”

  “He did.”

  “Good.”

  Thanks a lot.

  “So what’s the problem? We agreed this was best.”

  A flood of words put pressure on the gate holding them back. I saw Mother. She told me you’ve kept us apart. So many lies, Daddy. How can I ever trust you again?

  “I’m waiting.”

  “I don’t want to rush into it. This is a big decision.”

  “Not at all. You’re unmarried. You got yourself pregnant. You’re in school, trying to get a degree.”

  She didn’t like how he emphasized the word “trying.”

  “Certainly you can’t be thinking of keeping it.”

  Her mind hadn’t gotten that far. “I don’t know, Daddy.”

  “I can’t have an illegitimate grandchild. I won’t… I gave you money—”

  It was always about money, always about him. “I’ll return the money.”

  “That’s not the point. We made a decision and I expect you to follow through. You’re weak in that department, Vanessa. You have a tendency to fall short, to bow out of the final goal. ‘He who hesitates is lost.’”

  Lost. It was exactly how she felt. “’Night, Daddy.”

  “But we’re not finished. I need you to—”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  She hung up on him. And felt a surge of power.

  Interesting.

  Dawson, Minnesota—1987

  “Miss Holloway? Are you with us?”

  Lane looked up at the teacher. All eyes were on her. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “Obviously nothing that you heard.” Mrs. Williams took up residence beside her desk. Too late, Lane covered the bright yellow flyer. The teacher pulled it free. “Hmm. It seems our own Lane Holloway wants to take Hollywood by storm.”

  There were laughs all around.

  Mrs. Williams handed the flyer back.

  Jamie Calfield grabbed it away and read it, made a disgusted face, and shoved it to the edge of his desk, where it slid to the floor. “Do you actually think an audition that’s held in Minnesota will make you famous? Get real.”

  Mrs. Williams retrieved the flyer and put it back on Lane’s desk. “Lane is allowed to have dreams, Jamie. You might try having a few yourself.” Then she gave Lane a pointed look. “But not during my class.”

  Lane glanced at her boyfriend, Toby Bjornson, seated the next row over. He shrugged. He didn’t believe in the audition either.

  Mrs. Williams moved to the front of the room. “Now, back to Gorbachev. What effect do you think his new policies of glasnost and perestroika will have on US-Soviet relations?”

  Lane wanted to scream, “Who cares?” Gorbachev, Reagan, Khadafy, Oliver North… what did any of them have to with life in Dawson, Minnesota?

  And what does you becoming a movie star have to do with life in Dawson, Minnesota?

  Lane put a protective hand on the flyer. Grandma Nellie had given it to her last week, and she’d been carrying it around ever since. “You go, child. You take this chance to let your star shine.” Her star? Sure, she liked to perform. Sure, she always got the lead in the school plays. Sure, she loved acting more than anything. But acting in Dawson was far different than acting in Hollywood. At the audition, she would be up against the hopes of every wannabe in the nation. The nationwide search for Bess in the new movie Empty Promises was the most exciting actor event since the search for Scarlett O’Hara in the thirties. Their audition appointment was for seven this evening in Minneapolis.

  Lane caught Toby glancing back at her. He smiled and offered a wink. He was the main reason she wouldn’t go through with it. They were engaged to be engaged, a condition they’d been holding onto since fifth grade when he’d first taken her hand in the coatroom at recess. But what would happen to the us of “Toby and Lane” if she went off to Hollywood?

  It was a reasonable question but one that sent her into an Excedrin headache No. 78. She couldn’t think about it anymore. She was leaving for Minneapolis in a few minutes, as soon as class got out. She was. Grandma was taking her. There was no turning back.

  The bell rang and Lane’s stomach stirred up more butterflies than she’d gotten watching Cher accept the Oscar for Moonstruck. Her family laughed at how involved she got with the awards. Nervous. “You’d think you were the one up for the award,” her father had said.

  Someday… hey, if Cher could win, so could she.

  Toby scooped up her books and they headed for the hall, where he draped his arm across her shoulders.

  “Don’t look so smug,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I saw the look on your face when Jamie made fun of the audition.”

  They stopped at her locker for her coat. “Hey, he spoke the truth. He told you exactly what I’ve been telling you—”

  Lane slammed the locker shut. People looked in her direction so she yanked Toby toward the exit. “I don’t need everyone telling me it’s a long shot. I know that. But I promised Grandma I’d go.”

  Toby pulled her head close and gave it a kiss. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Is that such a bad thing?”

  “I don’t want to get hurt either, Tobe, but I’m afraid if I don’t try, it will hurt even more.”

  Once outside, Lane scanned the waiting cars for Grandma’s red Rabbit. “There she is.”

  But as she turned to give Toby a good-bye kiss, he dropped their books and took hold of her upper arms. “Don’t go, Laney. Don’t go.”

  “But I promised—”

  Grandma moved her car forward in line until she was centered on Lane. She beeped the horn. When Lane looked her way, she tapped her watch. I know. I know. Lane turned back to Toby. “I have to go.”

  “No. No, you don’t. You have to stay here with me.”

  Suddenly, an image flashed in Lane’s mind. She was wearing a red blouse, crying in front of a table where three people sat. Three judges. Judges at an audition? Was she crying after making a fool of herself?

  Toby was talking. “…put yourself through that?” He pulled her into his arms. His safe, warm arms. “I love you, Laney. I’m only trying to protect you.”

  She closed her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder. In his arms her butterflies landed. He was right. Why should she put herself through such pain? The image of crying in front of the judges returned. Who needed such humiliation?

  Not her. Not her.

  She pushed back in order to see his face. “I… I won’t go. You’re right. I don’t need to put myself through this. I don’t have a chance anyway.”

  He hugged her even closer now that she was truly his again.

  “I have to tell Grandma.”

  He stood aside, sliding his hands in his pockets. Grandma Nellie was leaning over the gearshift, watching. She rolled down the passenger window and called out, “Don’t just stand there. Destiny calls, child.”

  Oh dear. As Lane walked closer, Grandma flipped the door handle, making it pop open. Inviting her in.

  She opened the door but knelt beside it. How could she tell her most avid supporter she wasn’t going? Couldn’t go. Because she was chicken. She couldn’t look at the
older woman.

  Grandma sighed deeply. “Uh-oh. What’s going on?”

  She had to say the words. “I can’t go.”

  “It’s normal to be afraid.”

  Lane put a hand on the seat, steadying herself. “I don’t like the feeling.”

  Grandma laughed, but softly. “No one does. Fear is a part of life, child. You can’t let it win. A body has to push through it.” She reached across the seat and put her hand on Lane’s. “I don’t have any special knowing if you’ll get this part or not. I just want you to try. No regrets, remember?”

  Lane smiled. “No regrets” was Grandma’s battle cry.

  But was it hers?

  “Hey, Lane? Where’s your limo?” It was Jamie. Jamie smacked Toby on the shoulder. “What are you going to do after she gets rich and famous? Be her chauffeur?”

  The hurt in Toby’s eyes clinched it. Lane didn’t want to experience pain by going to the audition, and she didn’t want to cause it either. She looked at her grandma. “I’m sorry, Grandma. I really am.”

  She stood, shut the door, and walked toward Toby.

  Her grandma called after her. “Lane!”

  It was hard to keep walking.

  “So?” Toby asked.

  She leaned her forehead against his cheek and lowered her voice so Jamie wouldn’t hear. “I’m not going.”

  “You’re—?”

  “Can we get out of here?”

  He gathered their books, pulled her under his arm, and they walked away.

  “Hey, hey, Lane,” Jamie said. “What’d you do, chicken out?”

  She could take heckling. But what she found harder to handle was the sound of her grandma gunning the engine as she drove away.

  She couldn’t win. She just couldn’t win.

  They walked along their special place, across the walking bridge that spanned the Lac qui Parle River. The sound of their feet on the old wooden slats was reassuring, a connection with other days spent running over the bridge, pretending to be pirates or pioneers. They stopped halfway across and looked over the water. Lane zipped up her jacket and snuggled against Toby’s shoulder. “Hold me. Just hold me.”

  He held her tight and she heard his heart beating. The sound gave her comfort—the beat of the heart of the boy who loved her. What could be better than that?

  She’d expected his question, had even braced herself for his question, but when it came, she found she still wasn’t ready with an answer.

  “Why did you change your mind?” he asked.

  She thought of where she and Grandma would have been at this moment: on the highway to Minneapolis, Grandma pumping her up with big talk of big plans for her talent. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But you were so set, so sure. I’m glad, but—”

  She pushed away from him. “Don’t give me a hard time, Toby Bjornson. Ever since I heard about the audition you’ve been after me not to go.”

  “Your parents didn’t want you to go either.”

  “My parents have trouble believing Hollywood is a real place. They’re meat-and-potatoes people. They like things they can wrap their hands around, not dreams.”

  He stroked the edge of her cheek. “You are talented. I’ve always said that.”

  Talented enough for Dawson—population fifteen hundred. She turned her face so his hand fell away.

  His voice took on its normal tone. “So, just to know… what did I say that made you change your mind?”

  Truthfully? Nothing. She thought back to the image of a failed audition, wearing a red blouse, crying…

  Suddenly, she looked down. She wasn’t wearing a red blouse. She was wearing her lucky blouse that she’d worn when she got the part of Eliza in My Fair Lady at school last year. It was blue.

  Toby repeated himself. “What did I say to change your mind?”

  She sidled close again. “Just hold me.”

  Bar Harbor, Maine—1958

  David set their suitcases beside the porch swing of the Rocky Ledge Bed-and-Breakfast and watched his Millie as she strolled its length. He loved the way her slim skirt hugged her legs. If only the plaid jacket didn’t cover up the best of his view. He’d asked her not to wear it. It was too… northwoods. “So. You approve of this place for our honeymoon?” he asked.

  She looked away from him, out over the front yard that was dotted with red and gold mums. “It’s very nice.”

  His eyes were drawn to the gravel parking lot where his pride and joy was parked: a 1958 Pontiac Bonneville Sport Coupe. He really should ask the proprietor for a cloth to wipe it off. Odd how it suddenly seemed as if he were looking at it for the first time. He’d had it for three months. A litany of facts ticker-taped across his brain: The exterior is a two-tone Calypso and Burma green with chrome to the highest standards; power windows, steering, and brakes; a “Wonderbar” a.m. radio; a sliding Plexiglas sun visor; a “Memo-Matic” power memory seat; Rochester “TriPower” triple, two-barrel carbure—

  “Maybe I should leave you and your car alone?”

  He realized he’d been staring at it. “Can’t a man be proud of his possessions?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Millie?”

  She gripped the railing. “Possessions. Yes, David. You are the proud owner and conqueror of all you survey.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  This was not the first time she’d made such an odd comment. He passed it off as a stress-induced result of planning a wedding.

  And yet… he studied her a moment. Her eyes were sad. There was no reason for her to feel that way. He’d planned a marvelous weekend. Everything would be perfect—if she cooperated. He moved to her side, pulling her under his arm. “Aren’t you glad you decided to stop being difficult and come?”

  “Yes, David.”

  He picked up the suitcases and headed to the front door. When she didn’t follow right away, he had to clear his throat. Why did she make him do that?

  An antique check-in desk stood in the middle of the foyer. A silver-haired woman wearing a froufrou apron over an aqua dress came out of the back. “Welcome, welcome!”

  David removed his hat and shook her hand. “I’m David Stancowsky. I have a reservation.”

  She moved behind the desk, readying a check-in book. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Stancowsky. My name is Mrs. Stephens. We have your room ready. If you’ll just—”

  Millie pulled on the sleeve of his suit. “David? You said we’d have two rooms.” She looked at Mrs. Stephens. “We’re not married yet. We’re just checking out the accommodations to see if we’d like it for our honeymoon.”

  David couldn’t believe she contradicted him. This woman didn’t need to know the details of their lives.

  Mrs. Stephens put a hand to her mouth. “Oh. I see. Well, yes, we do have two rooms available.” She led him through the paperwork and handed him two keys. “Dinner’s at six-thirty. Will you be joining us?”

  “That would be nice,” Millie said.

  David palmed the keys. “Actually, no. We can’t. We have other plans.”

  “What other plans?” Millie asked.

  He picked up their luggage. “Let’s go see the rooms.” He accentuated the plural s just a bit, hoping she’d notice.

  “Mrs. Stephens?” Millie asked. “I’d love to have a tour of the home. It’s absolutely lovely. And I adore antiques.”

  Since when? David wanted to be alone with her, not eyeballing some out-of-date dresser.

  The old woman looked at him, then back at Millie.

  “Please?”

  “Of course, Miss...?”

  “Millie Reynolds. Call me Millie.” She turned to David. “Go on up, darling. Get settled in your room. I’ll be up shortly.” Then she walked into
the parlor, exclaiming to Mrs. Stephens about some rocker.

  What had gotten into her? As the two ladies moved on with their tour, he had no choice but to take the suitcases upstairs or stand like a lackey in the hall.

  He’d deal with her later.

  David had already unpacked their suitcases—in their respective rooms. He glanced at his watch. He would wait five more minutes before seeking her out, strongly suggesting that she get upstairs, with him, where she belonged. He was just putting his wallet and keys on the dresser when he heard a tap on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Millie opened it, peering in. “Oh, there you are. I wasn’t sure which room you’d be in.” She buzzed inside, commenting on the antiques in the room, giving a running commentary of all Mrs. Stephens had told her.

  He said nothing but sat in the wing chair before the fireplace, his hands clasped.

  She fingered a vase painted with flowers. “Did you know the china Mrs. Stephens uses for the meals was her great-great-grandmother’s? It was brought here on an immigrant ship, all the way from England.”

  She finally glanced at him. Then away. He tightened his jaw even more. “Where are the suitcases?” she asked. “I’ll unpack.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “Oh.” She wiped her palms on her skirt. “So. Is this your room or mine?”

  He spoke again but didn’t move. “It was supposed to be our room.”

  She sidled past him to the window, pulling aside the lace curtain. “We agreed, David. No hanky-panky before the wedding.” She suddenly smiled. “It’s starting to rain!”

  He got out of the chair to look. “Why do you sound happy about it?”

  “Oh. I’m—I’m not.” She watched the rain, yet her face did look oddly happy. “I bet these roads get really slick in the rain. Dangerous.”

  “Not if you know what you’re doing. And what do you care? I’m the one who drives.”

  She shrugged. “I told Mrs. Stephens we’d be here for dinner. We might as well take full advantage of the place.”

  “But I told you—and her—no. I have other plans for us.”

  She sighed deeply and took in another breath. “Frankly, David…” She shook her head. “I’m sick of your plans.”