The Second Chance and The Auctioneer (The Love Equation, #3)

by Allyson Lindt

  A no died on her lips. She tried to force the word out, but it wasn’t true. “In a way, yes.”

  “Holy fuck.” He scrubbed his face. “Do I have to put you on suicide watch?”

  A wounded stab joined her grief. “I’m not considering it for myself. I respect her decisions, though. In the end, she got something few of us ever get. Control over her life and destiny.”

  “I can’t see it that way. I hear the words, I’m trying to make sense of them, but I don’t get it.” He met her gaze. “And it’s worse that you do. This isn’t supposed to be reasonable. It was the wrong choice.”

  “Wrong or right, it wasn’t yours to make.” She hated this argument and being able to see both sides.

  “I don’t know if I can ever forgive her.”

  “I hope you do.” Bailey wanted to reach for him, but he felt worlds away. “I understand if you don’t. But I hope you do.”

  His phone rang and was in his hand before the first tone faded. Instead of answering it, he stared at the screen.

  “Do you need to get that?” she asked.

  “It’ll wait.”

  For as anxious as he was to get the device back, the answer surprised her. “I’m always here to listen. Even if you want to yell about how wrong I am and she was and this all is.”

  “That’s not me.”

  “I know.” She covered his hand with hers. “But the offer stands from now until forever.”

  JONATHAN HAD TO SWIM through sludge every time he let his thoughts drift inward. The grieving he avoided when Nana died haunted him tenfold. Heavy and sick inside. He didn’t want it to go away, but he couldn’t lose himself in it. As long as he only kept half his mind on what happened, he could mourn and seethe and get things done at the same time. He wanted to be mad at Bailey for brushing the entire thing off. That wasn’t quite the case, though. And the agree-to-disagree approach left their friendship intact. That was important.

  They got back to Nana’s house—Jonathan wouldn’t think of it as his. There was no doubt he’d sell the place now. Bailey settled in to her lists, and he stepped outside, to return the call he ignored earlier. He didn’t need her overhearing this conversation. The number was unfamiliar, so he wasn’t certain, but he had a good idea where it was from, based on area code.

  “Andrew Newton.” A cheerful voice picked up on the other end.

  That was what he thought. “Jonathan Woodhouse, returning your call.” He’d decided not to sell, but there was no reason for Bailey to know he’d considered it.

  “Hey, man. It’s nice to put a voice to the name. Especially for someone I’ve heard so much about.”

  “From whom?”

  Andrew chuckled. “The girls and some of the guys. You know how they gossip. Get them in front of a camera, tell them to take off their clothes, and a lot of them get chatty when they’re nervous.”

  “The guys?” Jonathan pulled his phone away from his ear, to glare at it.

  “Teasing. Miss Mercy speaks highly of you in vague and professional terms. What can I do you for? I hear you’ve got antique nudies. Old Playboys maybe? Original classic pinup art?”

  Jonathan wasn’t sure how this guy was friends with Mercy—everything about the conversation grated on his nerves—but apparently they went way back. Kids did tend to make bad decisions. “Ernest Hemingway.”

  “Is that a metaphor? Some kind of Old Man and the Sea kind of kink?”

  “It’s literal. It’s a film of Ernest Hemingway. But I’ve wasted your time. It’s not for sale after all.”

  “Hmm.” Was that seriousness in Andrew’s tone? “The imagery is disturbing, but I guarantee there are buyers out there for it if you can prove authenticity. What changed your mind?”

  “It’s also starring my grandmother.”

  “Oh. Eww.” Andrew sounded disgusted. “You thought about selling that? Man, what’s wrong with you?”

  “I wasn’t in my right mind. Mourning does funny things to a person.” Jonathan wondered why he returned this call. A never mind text would have sufficed. It was a relief to step back from the situation and view it from a different angle, though.

  “I’m glad you got over it. If you come across any classic spank-sheets that don’t reek of Oedipus, give me a call again.”

  “Oedipus was with his mother. And I didn’t make the fucking movie, I found it in storage.”

  “Technicalities. Keep my number, but not for the incest. And I’m sorry about your loss.”

  “Thanks.” As soon as Jonathan disconnected, rage sped back in. Was there a time limit on something like this, or was he stuck with the empty void in his chest forever?

  When he wandered back into the house, Bailey looked up from her spot on the couch. “Everything all right?” She frowned. “Besides the obvious?”

  Not really. Not ever again. That was melodramatic. He needed to reconcile Nana’s choice or he wouldn’t be able to get on with life. “I—yeah. I need to head back to my hotel and grab the rest of my things so I’m here to help you finish up, but I can’t sleep in this house.” His voice cracked. “Who do you like best in town, as far as lodgings are concerned?”

  “Me.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Why did he say that? His subconscious didn’t fill in the blanks of its assumption.

  She sighed. “You’re being stupid. I have a perfectly good guest room, and my place is close.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “We’ll stay up late watching movies, and you can make sure I don’t get into any trouble, and make breakfast.”

  Her teasing threatened to lighten his mood, but his resentment refused to let that happen. He covered both in numbness. “All right. But you have to behave.”

  “Me? I’m not the deviant.”

  “Whatever. I’ll be your chef, but I’m not your manservant.” There. That was the superficial joking he could do with anyone. The mask he was comfortable in.

  “Do you want company? Driving back to your hotel, I mean. You’re not the only one who’s been stuck on this island for days.”

  He didn’t want to talk, but being alone with his thoughts was worse. If she was there, they could keep up some kind of meaningless banter, and he didn’t have to sink into his own head. “Sounds fantastic. We’ll grab lunch and make a day out of it.” He offered his hand, and pulled her to her feet when she accepted.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bailey shifted in the passenger seat for the millionth time, trying to find a comfortable position for her broken arm. It didn’t hurt, but with the silence in the car, the itch under the cast became a focal point for her.

  She wanted to reach out to Jonathan and comfort him, but couldn’t think of anything new to say. The further they drove into the city, the more he seemed to close off. The wrinkle of a frown was gone from his brow, and his mouth was flat. No smile, no scowl, no anything.

  “I didn’t get to spend a lot of time exploring when I got in.” Even his voice was devoid of emotion. “Where’s a good place to eat?”

  The break in the silence jarred and relieved her at the same time. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for. Greasy? Fine dining?”

  “Turkey avocado.”

  “You’re such a California boy,” she said teasingly.

  His lips twitched, but no smile materialized. “They grow avocados here, too.”

  “But they also have fresh seafood and okra—”

  “And sweet tea and grits and chicken fried steak. I’m familiar with regional cuisine, thanks. I’m homesick.”

  She’d call bullcrap, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue. The implication he didn’t consider this home—at all, apparently—dug deep. The reminder he wouldn’t be here much longer hurt more. “There’s a sandwich place downtown. Cali Kitchen. Ought to be perfect.”

  That was the end of the conversation. They reached his hotel, and rode the elevator up to his room, neither of them saying more than a few words at a time. She hovered near the door, wishing she could cross her arm
s.

  He slid his laptop into a bag, gathered up the rest of his luggage, and shouldered the bags. A shudder ran through him, strong enough she saw his frame shake, and his things fell to the floor.

  When he sank to the edge of the bed and dropped his face into his hands, her heart broke. His sob, though quiet, echoed in her eardrums like an air horn.

  She crossed the room in a few strides, and knelt on the mattress next to him. It was awkward, draping her arm around his shoulders, and pulling him into a hug, but it was her only choice. “I’m so sorry this hurts.”

  “She fucking lied to me. For thirty years. Fed me lines about the beauty of life. How every person should be allowed to enjoy what they had. Told me I’d be happier if I stopped every once in a while, to smell the roses. And she hated it here so much, she ran away.” His interpretation of events hurt as much as the reality.

  Bailey struggled with the internal war between sympathy and resentment that he didn’t get this. “That’s not why she did it.”

  “No?” He met her gaze with red-rimmed eyes, tears fresh on his face. “Then explain it again, because I don’t fucking understand. The world is full of people who don’t practice what they preach, but I thought she was a believer. She taught me our time here is sacred, and she never meant a word.”

  She wanted to offer sympathy, but didn’t think it was the way to get through this. “You don’t actually think that’s true. You might hate the choice, you might loathe that she left you alone when she moved on, but you’re not stupid. Part of you gets this.”

  “But I don’t want to. I don’t know how to cope with knowledge like this. The world is supposed to make sense at its core. Be ordered and logical and not driven by things like not wanting to lose one’s self.” Anguish filled his voice.

  “No one left us an instruction manual. We’ll figure it out together. You have to stop trying to block up how you feel, though.” Putting the thought into words hit her hard. She hadn’t been able to vocalize it before now, but this was why he’d set her on edge since he arrived. No, longer—since she got engaged to Danny. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was that he refused to admit it.

  “I can’t. That would shred me from the inside.”

  She nudged him upright, and shifted them both until she could wrap his arms around her. She leaned against his chest. “So what? I disassembled me when I left Danny. I came out the other side okay.”

  “You had Nana’s help.”

  “I did. And you and I have each other. Even when you go back home, we don’t have to lose that.” Saying the words made his leaving a more painful reality.

  “Don’t we?”

  She pulled his arms more tightly around her. “Of course not. I’m always and forever here for you.”

  “I can’t forgive her for leaving this way.”

  “I hated you for more than a decade, for letting me marry Danny, and that wasn’t your fault.” Bailey tried to keep her tone light, but her voice cracked. “You’re entitled to this, as long as you deal with it instead of ignoring it.”

  He squeezed her, and rested his chin on her head. “Thank you.”

  IN THE FOUR DAYS SINCE the storm moved north, the people in town finished cleaning up debris and were well on their way to fixing up broken buildings. Bailey and Jonathan had made solid headway on going through Nana’s stuff in the same amount of time. He still felt a stabbing sadness when he looked at so many of her belongings, but he accepted the grief for what it was.

  Bailey was going stir-crazy, not being able to do more. She’d stayed in the living room the first couple of days, making her lists. That shifted to the occasional shout upstairs, asking what else she could do to help. Today she was wandering into Nana’s bedroom every half hour or so, trying to move lighter things around. By the time lunch rolled around, he gave up trying to shoo her out.

  Now they sat on Bailey’s couch, her feet in his lap, Spice Girls playing on the TV. She told him it was his movie, so he needed to give it some love. The excuse that he was a misguided youth when he bought it didn’t earn him a reprieve.

  She stretched, and then settled in again. This was his favorite position. Intimate, but without expectation. Friendly with none of that with benefits stuff. The way things should be.

  “I’m going to miss having you as my personal slave,” she said.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not my title.” It took him a few days to get back to being comfortable with the teasing. On some levels, it still felt wrong to enjoy life with Nana gone.

  Bailey laughed. “We both know you’re my bitch, as long as this”—she held up her broken arm—“has you believing I’m some sort of china doll.”

  “Okay, so that’s true.” Diving into concern for her was easier than letting the raw grief consume him. Not that he could stop the mourning all the time. When it hit, it was unrelenting. He saw it in Bailey, too. The way she paused in the middle of something, and took a few minutes to steady herself, before dragging the back of her hand across her cheeks and carrying on.

  Lucifer seemed to be the only one of them dealing well with things. Once they moved her to Bailey’s house, she slept at the foot of Jonathan’s bed, woke up with him, and never failed to remind them if they let her food- or water- bowl drop below half full.

  Speaking of food... “What do you want for dinner?” he asked.

  “Whatever you’re cooking. The only thing I won’t miss about you leaving is you feed me too well.”

  “Hang on. Processing what the hell that means.” His laugh died in his throat, as her words sank in. His time here was running out, but they hadn’t talked much about it. They’d exchanged contact information and then moved on to happier things.

  Her smile turned sad. “I’m going to miss you, but not the fact you always make too much delicious food.”

  “I’ll miss you too.” He squeezed her foot. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t make sense of the words spinning in his head, begging for release. “Spicy peanut chicken, then.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, JONATHAN loaded up his rental car. Most of the items he decided to keep were shipped home.

  “Do you have everything?” Bailey asked.

  He spun to face her. She leaned against the hood of the car, holding herself steady with her good arm.

  “I think so.” He gave his luggage one last glance, despite knowing it was all there. “I hate leaving you disabled.”

  “It’s an arm. I’m not an invalid. I can ask anyone in town if I need something, and they’ll deliver. Besides, what are you going to do? Stay for the next six weeks? You hate it here.”

  “I don’t hate it.”

  “You’re dying to get back to work.” She winced. “Poor choice of words.”

  He wasn’t trying to block the pain anymore. “You can’t filter what you say. And I’d feel better if you went with me.” That came out wrong. “So you’re not alone while you heal.” He handed her a business card with his personal information on the back.

  She laughed and pocketed it. “Now that I have three, I’ll probably be able to find at least one when I need it. I’m glad you came back.”

  “Me too.” He wrapped her in a hug, careful not to jar her cast. “I’m going to miss you. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

  She buried her face in his chest. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid with my arm and that I won’t get engaged to an abusive asshole and that I won’t intentionally put myself in harm’s way.”

  “I’ll take it.” He squeezed her tight, then let go and stepped back.

  “Text me when you land.”

  If he said anything else, they’d be here all day and into tomorrow. He gave her a final smile and dropped into the car.

  The house, and then the trees, and eventually the island grew smaller in the mirror, as he drove toward the mainland. For the first time he could remember, he didn’t regret leaving it all behind. That was always his least favorite part of summer—going home at the end. There were too many memories, a
nd surrounding himself with them would mar them, not make them better. But his other regret lingered. He’d never liked leaving alone, and the feeling was now stronger than ever.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It had been a week since Jonathan left, and it was taking Bailey more time to adjust than she’d expected. Each time there was a knock on the door, or someone in town called her name, a tiny bit of her hoped it was him. It wasn’t. Thinking such a thing was ridiculous, but that didn’t stop her from clinging to the desire. They were keeping in touch, as promised. That was something.

  She settled into the recliner at home with a fresh bag of chips and a jar of dip, and turned on the TV. Some sort of police procedural played in the background, as she typed out a text. Auction’s over. A few pleasant surprises. Most of it as expected. Check’s in the mail.

  His reply buzzed in within moments. If you were anyone else, I’d take that as seriously as ‘trust me.’

  Or ‘only driven once,’ she sent back.

  Or ‘of course he’s your son and not the mailman’s.’

  She laughed. You left this movie behind without instructions. What do you want me to do with it? Broaching the topic was risky. It meant talking about Nana’s life, rather than glossing over her death.

  There was a several -minute pause. Was he distracted, or did she ruin the conversation? His message finally came through. Bury it in a crate in the back yard.

  How am I supposed to respond to that?

  I’m not being bitter. Can you think of a more appropriate fate for it?

  She didn’t agree with his assessment. So the next person who finds it can sell it, instead of you?

  Another pause. This one longer. You knew about that.

  I guessed. She had hoped he wouldn’t confirm it. At least he hadn’t gone through with it though. I heard pieces of the conversation. You stood on the front porch while you talked to the guy.

  Maybe the next person sells it. Maybe they burn it. Maybe they keep it and enjoy it for the classic art it is. Regardless, Nana touches at least one more life even after she’s gone. Makes someone else feel. And hell, it’ll drive historians nuts. Did Hemingway have another child? Didn’t he?