Second Time Around

by Nancy Moser

  “Only if she comes back. She might not, you know.”

  Brandy nodded and got the two cans of Sunshine Yellow paint from the closet. She couldn’t think about that. She couldn’t.

  Bangor

  Dina Edmonds hated having a clean desk—yet strove for it. As Mr. Stancowsky’s personal secretary for forty-six years, she prided herself on being the essence of organization. Hence, a clean desk was proof of her abilities.

  Yet now, with David gone, a clean desk was a gaping testament to the fact that she had little to do. Without his presence, her life was empty. Boring.

  But he’ll be back. He’ll come back to me.

  She shook her head adamantly and whispered under her breath. “Stop it, Dina. He will not be back. He’s with Millie. She wins.”

  Again. Millie would win again.

  Though Dina had loved David from the first moment she’d met him in 1958, he’d never returned the emotion. Not that she hadn’t tried to change his mind. She still felt shame at her reaction to Millie’s death. At the time, she’d thought of it as an opening. Surely it was fortune smiling down upon her. After all, the poor widower would need comfort as he found a way to go on with his life.

  The trouble was, David never “went on.” Not emotionally, anyway. Career-wise, he lucked out when Millie’s father allowed him to continue his transition to become head of Mariner Construction. Ray Reynolds had accepted David as the beloved son-in-law he would never have. Yet, set for life in his career, David had poured his attention in that direction and had politely refused Dina’s overtures toward sharing a more personal part of their lives. He’d been polite enough but was unyielding, until she’d finally realized—it had been a Tuesday, May 12, 1964—that she had a choice: She could be in David’s life as his secretary or not at all. It hadn’t been that hard of a decision. She knew she wasn’t a pretty woman, and her talent with men was limited to her ability to organize and be efficient. Since there never had been a string of suitors in her life, since she’d come to grips early on with the possibility that marriage might not be a reality—ever, with anyone—Dina made the choice to be David’s right-hand man. Woman.

  Now, at age seventy-four, her life had contained moments of satisfaction. She’d taken quite a few business trips with David. All on the up-and-up, of course. She never would forget the time they’d celebrated a huge contract in New Orleans by going to dinner at a top-floor restaurant that revolved and offered an amazing view of the city. It could have been a romantic evening…

  Day to day, she took her pleasure in small things. In David’s “Well done, Dina” and the vase of flowers he always had delivered on her birthday. And she liked nothing better than to stand beside him as he gave her instructions, drinking in the marvelous, woodsy smell of his aftershave.

  Monetarily, her compensation was more than fair. In fact, she knew she was overpaid for her position, but also knew he could afford it. And wasn’t loyalty worth something? Forty-six years at one job was nothing to sneeze at. In truth, she had more money than she needed and had used a chunk of it to purchase a lovely home that offered a magnificent view of the Maine woods. It wasn’t showy, but it was hers.

  David had never seen it.

  She rearranged her stapler a half inch to the left, making it parallel with her in-box. She could have retired years ago, but as long as David kept working… Actually, it was imperative they both continue to work. How else would she get to see him?

  She had saved enough to go on a world cruise, but what fun was such a trip alone? Her most avid hope was that one of these days she’d have the nerve to ask him to join her. Platonically. As a dear, lifelong friend. She’d been on the verge of asking right before Christmas but had chickened out.

  And now it was too late. He was gone. And he wasn’t coming back. Why should he? Millie was in the past. Only old age was here in the future.

  She jumped when the phone rang. “Mariner Construction, David Stancowsky’s office.”

  “This is Bonnie Brown from USA Today. We were wanting some more information about this woman Mr. Stancowsky is visiting in the past. We’ve found clippings about her tragic death, but we were wondering if there was anyone there who knew her who could tell us about their relationship?”

  For once in her life she abandoned rationale. She found herself saying, “I can talk to you.”

  “And you are…?”

  I’m the woman David should have loved. “I’m Mr. Stancowsky’s secretary. I’ve worked for him the last forty-six years.”

  “Really? Tell me more.”

  “You said Millie was unappreciative in regard to the wedding?” Bonnie Brown asked. “Can you give me an example?”

  If Dina had been in a court of law, an attorney would have jumped out of his chair and yelled, “Objection! Hearsay!” regarding what she was about to say. Yet, since there was no one to object, no one at all… “I witnessed Mr. Stancowsky’s detailed preparations for their wedding.” She remembered seeing the sketches and swatches for the dress after the fact. “He was involved in every detail. He cared immensely. They were just beginning to plan things when she died, but from his level of discouragement, I got the impression she wasn’t cooperating.”

  “In what way?”

  Speculation, Dina. This is all speculation. “She didn’t appreciate his amazing attention and eye for detail, his interest. Most grooms want minimal involvement in wedding plans— especially back in 1958. But not Mr. Stancowsky. He did everything for his Millie. I know her stubborn disinterest and willfulness hurt him.”

  “She sounds a bit immature. Was she younger than he was?”

  “Six years younger.” A thought came to her. “In fact, I think her immaturity had a lot to do with her death.”

  “Oh?”

  It was as if someone else were in control of her mouth. Dina knew she should stop saying such negative things but couldn’t stop herself. The dam of silence had been breached, and decades of bitterness streamed out, unstoppable.

  “Mr. Stancowsky took Millie for a weekend trip to a bed-and-breakfast. All very proper, I assure you. He just wanted to show her this particular place because he planned to go there for their honeymoon. It was a lovely place. I saw a brochure.”

  “This was close to the location where she crashed?”

  Dina nodded, though Bonnie couldn’t see her. “Yes. Mr. Stancowsky told me later that they’d gotten into an argument and Millie had driven off—in his prized Pontiac Bonneville. A beautiful car. Sage green. She drove off in the rain, showing no concern for him or the weather. She had a tantrum and died for it.”

  “That’s a strong statement.”

  Dina clamped a hand over her mouth. Too strong! This was not what she wanted people to focus on. If David were here, he would be appalled at her words. In his absence, she was his advocate. She needed to let the world know what a wonderful man he was. She had to turn the attention away from Millie and onto David’s good works. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Brown, I know Mr. Stancowsky would rather you focus on his public life. Did you know he has received twenty-four awards for his business acumen? Mariner Construction, which started as a small Bangor company, has now completed projects in forty states and two countries. It is a multibillion-dollar business.”

  “Billion you say?”

  Money always was an attention-getter.

  Montebello

  Toby skipped work. Again. After his interview on the morning show, he’d hurried home to wait for other calls. From other reporters on other TV stations. He wasn’t dumb. He knew how this worked. If the weekly loser on one of those reality shows could get a gig on national talk shows, so could he. After all, he wasn’t a loser. He was the true love of a Time Lottery winner and a movie star. Double bonus points.

  By the time he got home, he had three calls on his answering machine, the most exc
iting from a network morning show in New York City. They wanted him. Tomorrow. They were sending a car for him in an hour. A plane ticket would be on the computers at the airport. Then a limo ride and a couple of nights at a ritzy hotel. Meals included, of course.

  Finally, he was going to get a feel for what Lane enjoyed every day of her life. It was his turn now, and he wasn’t going to waste a moment of it.

  He shoved a pair of khakis into his duffle bag. The phone rang and he cleared his throat, preparing for another interview request. Maybe he should charge a fee…

  “Mr. Bjornson?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Alexander MacMillan from the TTC.”

  “The what?”

  “The Time Travel Corporation. The Time Lottery people.”

  Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good. “I can’t talk now. I’m just heading out the door.”

  “We really need to talk, Mr. Bjornson.”

  “I told you, I don’t have time.” He thought about bragging and decided, why not? “I have to get to the airport. I’m going to be on TV tomorrow. Network, national TV.”

  “I… I don’t think that’s wise, Mr. Bjornson.”

  “Hey, people think I’m interesting. And they have a right to know me. I’m the man Laney went back to see. I’m important in her life. Giving me up was her biggest regret.”

  “But you weren’t engaged, were you?”

  How did he know that? “We were engaged to be engaged. If Laney hadn’t gone to that stupid audition, we would have been.”

  “You shouldn’t say you were engaged.”

  “I can say anything I want to.”

  “You shouldn’t lie, Mr. Bjornson. It will whip around to bite you. Lies always do.”

  “I don’t need a morality lesson from you, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.”

  Toby hung up hard. Nobody was going to stop him. Nobody.

  Kansas City

  Mac sat with his hand on the receiver. Toby was on a roll, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him without bringing the guy even more attention. He just hoped Toby’s fifteen minutes would fade before Lane’s week was up.

  He turned toward his credenza and flipped the TV back on. Please, Lord. No more bad press. When he saw a teaser that showed a picture of Vanessa’s father, his stomach dropped. He caught only the tail end of the promo and heard “…what is Vanessa Caldwell’s father covering up? Exclusive footage, right after the break.”

  Mac had met the man only once in the Time Lottery waiting room, but in that short time Yardley Pruitt had revealed himself to have an ego. He was a man used to getting his own way. But what did the reporter mean about “covering up”?

  Mac wanted to go home. He ran his hands over his face, waiting for the commercials to be over. He tried not to think of possible scenarios with Mr. Pruitt. Why borrow trouble?

  Speaking of…

  Wriggens came in. “You’re watching?”

  “I’m watching.”

  Wriggens sat in a guest chair, moving it for the best view of the television. “What do you think he’s covering up?”

  “I prefer not to speculate.”

  “Mmm. Did you take care of the Toby situation?”

  Might as well come out with it. “He won’t talk to us. He’s having the time of his life. He’s going to be on a national morning show tomorrow.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “And how should I have done that?”

  “Offer him money. Anything.”

  Mac knew the limits of the Time Lottery budget. A couple hundred bucks wouldn’t stop Toby Bjornson. “It’s not about money. It’s about fame. Getting attention. Nothing can stop him until Lane comes back.”

  “Great. Until then, who knows what libelous thing he might say? Her lawyers will be at our throats.”

  “Hopefully not our throats. His. We’re not saying anything.”

  “But Toby’s been let loose because of us. Lawsuits always trickle down. We’ll get sued.” Wriggens hesitated. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  He shook his head, then pointed at the TV. “It’s on.”

  They watched the Yardley Pruitt interview—which was not much of an interview at all. The man only said two words: “No comment.” But that didn’t stop the anchor. “Since that interview with Mr. Pruitt, we have done some research into the life of the late Dorian Pruitt Cleese and have found that she was an exemplary teacher, winning many awards and the accolades of her peers. Here is Sue Benning, the principal of Ms. Cleese’s school.”

  The report went on to interview the principal and two other teachers. Now Mac knew why Vanessa wanted to go back and explore life with her mother. She was a fascinating woman. He wondered what had happened that had kept them apart for over thirty years.

  He bet Yardley Pruitt had something to do with it.

  Cheryl tossed the lettuce salad. “I still don’t understand why you’re so upset about Toby. He’s really kind of pitiful. And people aren’t dumb. They’ll see he’s no love match for Lane.” She sprinkled the lettuce with Romano. “Actually, I can’t understand why she ever was interested in him—especially enough to go back to rekindle some teenage passion.” She forced a shiver. “Yuck. I think you and Wriggens are overreacting. Take a breath, Mac. Let it die on its own.”

  Mac checked on the meat loaf. If only he could tell her what Lane was really doing in the past.

  He felt her eyes on his back and turned toward her. “What?”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

  “No.” He turned back to the oven.

  She slid between him and the appliance. “Uh-uh. Does not compute. Lucky for me you are a horrible liar. Fess up.”

  He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I can’t.”

  She traced his jawline and smiled her amazing smile. “Of course you can.”

  “I can’t. I promised.”

  She abandoned the seductive approach and thrust her hands onto her hips. “Promised who?”

  He risked a glance. “Lane.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Oh, so it’s Lane now, is it? You two are on a first-name basis?”

  “Cheryl…”

  “We made a deal, Mac. No secrets. I’m too old to deal with secrets in a relationship; besides, it’s against my nature. My life’s an open book to you. And yours supposedly is to me.”

  “And it is.” He’d told her more about his life with Holly than he’d ever told anyone. “But this is business.”

  She removed her apron and drilled it into the counter. “You know what? I’m sick of secrets. You insist on keeping our relationship a secret and now you’re keeping a secret from me. It’s a pattern I can’t condone. It makes me weary and drives me crazy. I’m going home.” She strode to the entry, where her coat hung over the banister.

  Mac hurried after her. “I would tell you if I could, but it’s imperative nobody knows—until Lane chooses to tell.”

  “She’s not here!”

  “Exactly. So I can’t speak of it without her permission.”

  She shoved her arms in the coat and refused his attempts to help. “You don’t trust me.”

  “I…” Actually, Cheryl did have a penchant for speaking first and thinking later.

  “Fine. On this note of distrust, I hereby declare this evening over.” She yanked open the door.

  “But—” Mac stopped when a group of reporters ran toward the door.

  “Shut it!” he yelled.

  She started to, but with a cock of her head, opened it wide and stepped out onto the stoop.

  “Dr. Nickolby…” said one of the reporters. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ask h
im.” She nodded toward Mac. “Ask my boyfriend.” She went to her car.

  Nine

  Let the wise listen and add to their learning,

  and let the discerning get guidance.

  Proverbs 1:5

  Athens—1976

  He’s doing it on purpose!

  Vanessa tried not to stare at Bruce as he blatantly flirted with Amanda Jones in their Accounting Principles class. Tried not to even look at him. But it was impossible with him sitting one row over and two seats up. The seats weren’t assigned, so she knew he’d placed himself directly in her sight line to bug her and flaunt his status as a free man in spite of her pregnancy. In spite of all they’d shared.

  And exactly what did we share?

  She pretended to study her textbook and hoped the teacher would make his entrance soon. If she heard Amanda giggle one more time…

  The thought returned: What did you and Bruce share—besides sex? They’d spent two months together. They’d met at a kegger right after they’d returned from Christmas break. He’d been drunk. She’d been drunk. And they’d ended up curled together on the stairs, lips locked, bodies wanting more. They hadn’t had sex that night. But when he’d called the next day, she’d gone out with him, knowing where it was heading. Two people didn’t backtrack easily from a lip-lock like the one they’d shared— though they had managed to hold off until the third date.

  It wasn’t that Vanessa was promiscuous. She wasn’t. Not really. But as her college years progressed, and as she saw more and more of her girlfriends succumbing to the pleasures—or pressures—of sex, she’d decided to take the plunge herself. There had been only two before Bruce. And they hadn’t lasted long. Thank goodness.

  She’d thought Bruce was different. Two months was respectable, a new world record. They’d even talked about a life together after graduation. Vanessa had mentioned marriage but Bruce had leaned toward living together. She’d been skeptical of what Daddy would have said to that one, but figured since she was twenty-one he couldn’t do much. Except make my life miserable. Except cut off my allowance.