Second Time Around

by Nancy Moser

  “Mr. Stancowsky is the CEO of Mariner Construction, an international, multibillion-dollar—”

  Yardley s nerves were already on edge and this statement… “Yes, yes. We could all recite that in our sleep by now.”

  Jack’s eyebrows rose. “So how do you know Mr. Stancowsky?”

  “He built a bank building for me back in the seventies. Did a shoddy job of it, too. If memory serves, we ended up withholding money from him because of the workmanship.”

  “Perhaps we’ll ask Mr. Stancowsky about it if he comes back.”

  “I could tell you more. I believe it had something to do with faulty concrete work in the parking lot.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Let’s move on and let you tell us about your ex-wife, Dorian Pruitt Cleese, the woman your daughter has traveled back in time to see. She sounds like an interesting woman.”

  Yardley did not let himself look at Rachel but let a snicker escape. “She was amazing all right. Amazingly stubborn. The empress of the hippies, she had absolutely no sense of propriety and decorum.”

  Another raised eyebrow. “How so?”

  Yardley hadn’t planned on citing any specific incidents and racked his brain for one. Rachel was leaning slightly forward as if she wanted to hear, too. “There was this one important dinner party at our home where she decided to go all organic. All natural. And she had on some weird folk music. Judy somebody and—”

  “Judy Collins?”

  “Whatever. The point is, by the end of the evening, she and the clients were all singing along to the record, drinking wine, having a grand old time.”

  “It sounds nice. What was the problem?”

  They didn’t include me. “Uh… it wasn’t… appropriate.”

  Jack gave Yardley another incredulous look, causing him to quickly add more information. “No matter what I said to her, no matter how often I pleaded with her, Dorian would not do things my way, the proper way. She had a strange manner of looking at things, of approaching life.”

  “She won numerous teaching awards for her strange manner of looking at things, of approaching life. She was also active in many environmental causes.”

  This was not going well. He had to think of something else… “Dorian left us to pursue her hippie lifestyle. She left Vanessa—who was a needy teenager—and me. And she showed absolutely no interest in us again.”

  “She never made contact?”

  “Never.” He put on his best pained expression. “It was tough raising a teenager alone.”

  He noticed Rachel open her mouth to speak. Jack must have, too, because he turned his attention her way. “Ms. Caldwell. Did you ever have a chance to meet your grandmother?”

  “No, I didn’t. At least not exactly.” Rachel collected the stack of envelopes, placing them in her lap. She had the address side turned downward so Yardley couldn’t see what they were. They looked like letters. What letters could have any bearing on this particular moment in—

  With difficulty, he pried his hands off the armrests of the chair and placed them on his thighs.

  “What have you brought with you?” Jack asked.

  She slapped the pile. “These letters prove that my grandmother did not leave my mother willingly.” She nodded toward Yardley. “He divorced her. And he kept my grandmother from having any contact with her daughter.”

  “And those letters are from whom?”

  Yardley broke in. “I really don’t see how this has any relevance—”

  Rachel continued. “They are from my grandmother to my mother.” She turned the stack over and showed the camera the addressed side. “See? ‘Return to sender.’” She nodded toward Yardley. “He sent them all back. He was the one who kept mother and daughter apart. On purpose. He intercepted all phone calls, all visits…”

  Jack turned to him. “Is this true, Mr. Pruitt?”

  He wanted to grab the letters away, throw them in the garbage. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Such as?”

  He couldn’t think of any and had only repeated the line because he’d heard it said often—though he did have the uneasy feeling it was usually used by guilty parties when they were put on the spot. He stood. “This interview is over.” He walked away, but his lapel mike pulled him back. He ripped it off.

  Once in the hall, he realized he had no place to go. This was his house. These people were intruders. He should go back in the den and order them out.

  But he stopped when he heard Jack continue the interview. “How did you get possession of these letters, Ms. Caldwell?”

  He was doomed. He hurried upstairs and locked himself in his bedroom. They’d all pay for this. They could count on it.

  It was unfortunate that the windows in Yardley Pruitt’s bedroom faced the back of the house. He’d heard commotion downstairs—doors opening and closing, people coming and going. He’d heard the sound of car engines. He put his ear to the door. Had everyone finally gone?

  Had Rachel gone?

  He never wanted to see her again. Only grandchild or no only grandchild, she’d sealed her fate with her betrayal. He’d call his lawyer in the morning and have his will changed.

  But wait. He needed to see if Vanessa came back before he did that. Who knew if there would be any Caldwell women listed in Yardley Pruitt’s will.

  Actually, he hoped Vanessa did come back. It would prove that life with Mommy dearest wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. It would prove that she chose him, that life here was ideal and better than anything science could create. It would prove he was a good father.

  He leaned against the door. Scratch that.

  He was a horrible father. Or at least that’s what the world would think. He didn’t know why he’d returned all Dorian’s letters or why he hadn’t let Vanessa see her. But when the first letter had come, he’d impulsively sent it back, which had started a pattern that he hadn’t been able to break. Because to suddenly let the two of them communicate would have allowed them to compare notes, and Vanessa would have found out the truth about who left whom.

  The truth he’d kept hidden for over thirty years.

  He thought he heard a sound. He whipped open the door. “Rachel?”

  He moved to the railing overlooking the stately foyer and perked up his ears. Nothing but silence—and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock marking the passing of time.

  Bangor

  Dina Edmonds stirred the spaghetti sauce and watched the news. But as soon as she heard what Yardley Pruitt said about David…

  “Liar!” She shook the spoon at him, making sauce splatter across her cupboards.

  The mess didn’t matter. She couldn’t let this go unchallenged.

  She grabbed her coat and purse.

  Dina chastised herself for not remembering sooner that Mariner Construction had done work for Yardley Pruitt. Until now. Until this. She usually was so good at remembering jobs, even dates and contract amounts.

  She hoped it wasn’t because she was getting old.

  Yet the details had streamed back as soon as she’d heard Yardley’s interview. The number $52,384 came to mind.

  She set her purse and coat on a waiting-room chair and made a beeline for the old file cabinets in the storeroom. The file drawers were in chronological order. She thought the job was 1974 or 1976.

  1976.

  She took the file back to her desk. It had been a bank building in Atlanta. One of Mariner’s first buildings outside the Northeast region. Dorian seemed to remember David or Ray Reynolds mentioning that the head of Fidelity Mutual was the friend of a friend of a friend who liked the idea of using someone out of state. Dina remembered thinking how odd it was that people often looked far away for experts when there often were some right next door. What was that pithy definition? “A prof
essional is someone who carries a briefcase and lives at least forty miles away.” Or a dozen states away.

  She flipped through the yellowed pages, her mind skipping back over three decades. Pruitt had said he’d withheld money due to shoddy workmanship. Mariner did not do shoddy workman—

  Her finger pegged an amount. $52,384. The money had been withheld by Fidelity Mutual. However, it wasn’t withheld for any workmanship issue but because Yardley Pruitt had said he didn’t want to pay extra for five change orders he’d requested. Five upgrades in finishes.

  “We threatened to take him to court,” Dina told the room. She flipped a few pages and found further correspondence. Because they had signed change orders in their possession, Pruitt’s lawyer had wisely gotten him to back down—after Pruitt tried to get out of paying by making the shoddy workmanship claim. Dina held up a check stub for the payment. In full. Proof Yardley Pruitt was a liar. Proof her David ran a respectable business.

  But what should she do with the information? David would be back in a few days—at least she prayed he’d be back. What would he do to make things right?

  Though David wasn’t a vindictive man, and though his reputation spoke for him, he would not let the lie pass. He would issue a simple statement—worded ever so succinctly—that would prove Pruitt was mistaken. He would take care of it. If he came back.

  Yet with the uproar over the three winners’ return, would such a statement get lost in the media hype?

  She stood, taking the check stub with her. She’d take care of it. It was her duty as David’s most loyal employee. Most loyal friend. She wouldn’t let him down. Now. Or ever.

  Long Island

  Millie had no idea how to go about breaking the news. She wasn’t a public person. She’d never sought attention. And she wouldn’t be doing this now if it weren’t for Deke’s support—she wouldn’t be anything if it weren’t for him. He’d saved her in 1958 and had continued to do so every day of their lives.

  He sat beside her now on the couch, with the phone sitting in her lap. She was calmed by the way his arm and leg touched hers. A simple presence, never wavering.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  She looked at him. “I don’t?”

  He put his hand on hers. “Of course not.”

  “But Mom—”

  “I love your mom to death, but she has an I-beam on her shoulder in regard to your father and David. I’ve always admired you because you don’t.”

  “You admire me?”

  He pulled her hand to his lips. “I adore you, Tracy. Millie.”

  She let her head tilt until it met with his. The past was past. Who cared what people thought about Millie Reynolds? She was dead.

  Tracy Osgood Cummins was alive.

  Tracy set the phone on the end table and turned her attention to the man beside her. Where it belonged.

  Rhonda closed the door to her bedroom. She couldn’t believe it. Her daughter wasn’t going to call the press and tell them she was alive? Without that truth coming out, David and Ray would get away with the lies, with pretending they were attentive, loving, grieving men. Pretending they had a heart.

  Rhonda knew better. David and her ex-husband didn’t own a heart but shared a communal, stubborn, egotistical will that overshadowed and smothered anyone who came within their sphere. Rhonda had remained silent for forty-six years mainly because she’d been lovingly held in the kind embrace of Connor Grayson.

  But now that her dear husband was gone, now that David Stancowsky and Ray Reynolds had burst onto the public scene, all her bitterness and hatred came flooding back. In the last few days, the thought of eking out a bit of revenge filled her up and made her come alive in a way she found both invigorating and disturbing. At age eighty-four, it was quite exciting.

  She couldn’t let Millie take that away from her. David might be coming back in a few days, and the chance would be lost. Or at least complicated. Best to do it now, before he came into the picture.

  She looked at the phone on her bed stand. It called to her.

  She answered.

  When she was confronted with the reporter’s question, Rhonda’s mouth went dry.

  “Ma’am? You said you had some information about David Stancowsky?”

  Rhonda cleared her throat. “Actually, I have information about his fiancée.” The words gained momentum. “Millie Reynolds, the woman he went back to 1958 to save from a car—

  “Crash. Yes. What about her?”

  Here goes. “She’s alive.”

  Silence.

  Rhonda tried again. “Did you hear me? Millie Reynolds is alive. She never died in that crash. It was all faked so David would leave her alone. She didn’t want to marry him, but he was so possessive he wouldn’t let her go.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  “I’m her mother.”

  So there.

  Somewhere over the Midwest

  “Can I get you anything to drink, sir?” asked the stewardess.

  Toby knew they weren’t called stewardesses anymore, but he couldn’t remember the politically correct term. “No thanks. But I’d like a blanket and pillow.”

  Toby’s seatmate poked him with an elbow. “Hey, drink up, man. You’re a celebrity now. Certainly someone else is paying?”

  Toby nodded, then shook his head. He’d done plenty of drinking and eating on someone else’s tab the last few days. He couldn’t believe the prices room service charged for a simple burger and fries, but the TV stations had told him to enjoy himself.

  He was having some fun now.

  The man next to him lowered his tray, ready for his drink and pretzels. “Bad break on that one interview. You know, the one where—”

  “I know the one.” He’d never forget the interview that had ruined his life and shattered all his hopes against a brick wall.

  “Weird how Lane Holloway told the media she was going back for you when she was really going back to not be famous. What’s with that? It’s my ten bucks at the movie theater that pays for her lifestyle, that helps her get twenty million per movie. And she wants a shot at not being famous?” He laughed and spread his hands, palms up. “Hey, welcome to my world.” Another poke in the side. “Hey, yours, too now, right?”

  Right.

  “Don’t feel bad for giving it a shot. I woulda done the same. But it might be hard going home. You think reporters are going to be camped out at your house?”

  “I hope not.” It was his biggest fear.

  “I’d brace myself if I were you. You’ve opened Pandora’s box, and there’s no way you can close it up again.”

  Toby had no idea what Pandora’s box was, but he got the gist of it.

  And it wasn’t good.

  The stewardess brought his blanket and pillow. He turned his body toward the window and pulled a blanket over his shoulder—though he really wanted to pull it over his head.

  “Hey, I getcha, man. I don’t blame you for not feeling like talking. You have a right to be depressed, so have at it.”

  Don’t mind if I do.

  Long Island

  Millie pulled the living-room curtain aside. “Deke…”

  He was on the phone. “No comment!” He hung up and joined her at the window. “I don’t know how they found out, but they did.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples trying to think. No one knew her secret. No one.

  She dropped her hands when a thought took hold: Except Mom.

  She walked toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. “Mother!”

  Rhonda came out of her room, the essence of innocence. “You called?”

  Millie tried to be calm but found it impossible. “We have a yard full of reporters and we’re getting calls. Somehow, they know I a
m David’s Millie and I didn’t die. How do they know that, Mom? How?”

  Deke had slipped in behind her, and Millie saw her mother look in his direction, too. Gauging how united they were? Millie reached back and took her husband’s hand. “Deke and I agreed it was best to let this go.”

  “I know. I heard. And I disagreed.”

  It took Millie a moment to let it sink in. “So you did call them? You are the leak?”

  She took hold of the doorjamb leading to her room. “I most certainly am. It had to be told. The truth had to come out.”

  “It did not! Both of us—all of us—have lived happy lives without that particular truth ever being public knowledge.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Mom!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. I’ll admit I’ve had a lovely life, but it galled me to hear Ray say you were strong-willed and headstrong—”

  “I was.”

  “You still are. But they’re making David out to be this attentive, grieving lover. They’re making it sound like you caused your own death because of some character flaw, not because he forced you to do it to gain your freedom.” She stepped toward Millie and placed a hand under her chin. “You were a hero to me, honey. So strong, so brave. You saved me as much as you saved yourself. I will always be grateful. Can I help it if I want the world to know what an amazing daughter I have?”

  “Oh, Mom…” Millie hugged her, and they held each other until Deke brought them back to the present.

  “What’s done is done,” he said. “I think you need to make a statement.”

  She looked toward the door. “Go out there?”

  “I’ll go with you,” her mother said.

  “Me, too,” Deke said.

  It was the only way. “Let’s get it over with.”

  They moved to the front door. Deke put his hand on the knob. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

  “Not a clue.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Open it.”

  Bangor

  Dina popped off the couch and loomed over her television.