Marry Me Again (The Second Chance Love Series, Book 1)

by Hill, Teresa

  Marry Me Again

  Second Chance Love

  Book One

  by

  Teresa Hill

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Special Author's Cut Edition

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-489-9

  Previously titled: Days Gone By

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1994, 2013 by Teresa Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  To Laura Jane,

  my bright-eyed,

  sugar-sweet girl

  Chapter 1

  The letter—a bizarre form of self-torture wrapped in the finest cream-colored stationery—was halfway across the room, yet the distance didn't diminish the power it held over him.

  In the darkened office, Tucker Malloy noted that the heavy crystal glass in his hand was empty once again and he was still sober—at least enough to know that he didn't want to open the damned letter. It had a power over him the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels could not match.

  This was the ninth letter he'd received, and each one seemed harder to bear than the previous one. This one burned hotter than the unadulterated whiskey sliding down his throat.

  It was Black Label stock—the good stuff.

  Black Jack, he recalled with a smile as he looked out the window again, watching the trails of cars that ran thick up and down the highway.

  He'd discovered the whiskey buried in a desk drawer. Must have been a present, because he didn't buy the stuff anymore. And when he had been buying it, he never would have picked up a bottle this small.

  Not that he had a drinking problem.

  He'd just gotten worried about four years ago—no, exactly four years ago, when the first letter had arrived—that it would be too easy, given his state of mind at the time, to develop a drinking problem. He'd come to look forward, a little too much, to that first drink of the evening.

  That was the summer when he quit drinking, just to be on the safe side.

  It was also the summer when he decided he didn't like what he'd made of his life. The summer when he realized he didn't like himself that much. The summer when he'd acknowledged for the first time that he couldn't run away from his past nearly as easily as he'd first believed.

  And now?

  Here he was in a cold sweat in the air-conditioned room, considering the idea that he'd made a monumental mistake all those years ago and wondering what it would take to put it all to right.

  If it could ever be right again.

  One more drink, he told himself. It was that time of year, one of the two days a year when he let himself have a drink.

  It was June. A too-hot Thursday in June. The letter had arrived, which meant the birthday had passed. The picture in the letter had most likely been taken on Sammy's birthday.

  He wasn't sure, of course, because he hadn't opened the letter. Not this one. Or the one that arrived shortly after Christmas. Or the one that came the previous June. Or any of the others.

  Only the first one—the one that arrived four years ago—had been opened, then carefully sealed again. He didn't need to see the picture. He carried the image in his mind as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

  He had eight of those letters at home in the bottom of a drawer he never opened. This one on the shelf, the one that had come today, made nine.

  Nine letters, he thought as he emptied the glass and tipped the little bottle again, and a son he wouldn't know if they brushed past each other on the sidewalk.

  * * *

  Tucker had started drinking around four. He downed the little bottle by five, called a taxi and made it home from his office thirty minutes later.

  He opened all the letters, one by one, starting with the one from Sammy's second birthday and ending with this one, from his sixth birthday on June 18. He lost another two hours staring at the picture, then at all the pictures. There they were, Sammy with Rebecca—looking even more beautiful than the woman he'd married so long ago—then Sammy, Rebecca and her husband, Brian Sandelle, huddled together so they all fit in the picture. One big, happy family—a little boy, his mother and a substitute father. That's what he'd wanted them all to be, a real family. There was no room for him there.

  He'd been sure when Rebecca divorced him that she and Brian would marry, that Sammy would find a father in the man. Tucker, for reasons that were both selfish and selfless, had wanted Sammy to have a good father. Tucker had been honest enough with himself to know he wouldn't be a good father for Sammy, and he and Rebecca probably weren't going to stay together.

  Tucker had loved her as best he could, loved her enough to want her to be happy. And he knew he would never make her happy. The knowledge had helped him to step back and give Brian, her childhood sweetheart, another chance with her.

  Tucker had his selfish reasons, as well. He wasn't cut out to be a married man, much less a father. Despite his misgivings about his own ability to be a good husband, he'd married Rebecca, because she was a marrying kind of woman, and he'd been willing to do anything to make her his, because he simply couldn't live without her.

  Then, when the relationship had soured and they'd hurt each other more than he'd believed possible, along came Sammy.

  The baby had scared Tucker to death and sent him searching for a way out. Right on cue came Brian Sandelle, and before long, Tucker saw a way to ease his guilty conscience and maybe put things right.

  After all, Tucker couldn't be such a rotten guy if Rebecca and Sammy found a way to be happier with Brian than they ever would have been with him. At least that's what he'd told himself.

  He'd seen the three of them together—Sammy, Rebecca and Brian—in that first picture he'd received, the one taken at Sammy's second birthday. He should be happy for them, he told himself. But he still had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning at the thought of Rebecca with another man. And now he was wondering what kind of father Brian Sandelle had made for Sammy and whether the boy's life had any room for Tucker.

  Tucker sat there and stared at the pictures spread out before him.

  It hurt as much as he'd thought it would, more than the whiskey could mask, to see with his own eyes the passing of time.

  Time he'd missed. All the days gone by, days he could never get back. Days in which his son had grown into a person Tucker didn't know at all, days in which his son had grown without the father he probably didn't even remember
.

  But the thing that hurt most of all was the look in the little boy's eyes in the most recent picture. There was a smile on his lips, but none in his eyes.

  Why did his little boy have such sad eyes? Tucker fumbled with the phone, then stopped short when he realized he didn't know the number to dial.

  That was a good thing, he realized. He wasn't ready to call just yet. He needed another minute to collect himself.

  Something deep within him—his heart, maybe his soul—had shattered like a broken glass when he'd seen the look in those big brown eyes.

  I did it for you, Sammy.

  He'd told himself that for five years, but it didn't wash anymore. He couldn't deny the blood ties that linked him and this sad little sandy-haired boy. Tucker needed his son, with a need deeper than any he'd ever known, a need that had grown with each day it had been denied.

  He both hoped and feared that the little boy still needed him, as well. Hoped because he wanted desperately to have another chance. Feared because that would mean the boy had needed Tucker in the past, but he hadn't been there. Feared because he might not be able to make that up to Sammy.

  Tucker stared at the clock. It was seven-thirty here, so it was eight-thirty in Florida.

  He didn't even know where his own son was living. He sent child-support payments regularly, but at Rebecca's request, they went to her father's law firm where someone forwarded them to her.

  She hadn't wanted anything to do with Tucker after the divorce, and he couldn't blame her for that.

  Would she put up with him now if Sammy agreed to see him after all this time?

  Tucker picked up the phone. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he dialed information.

  "In Tallahassee," he told the operator. "Brian or Rebecca Sandelle?"

  " Checking Tallahassee... I'm sorry, sir. I don't have a Brian or Rebecca Sandelle."

  "Thank you," he said.

  He sat there for a long time with nothing but silence in his ear.

  They must have moved.

  Only seven-thirty here, eight-thirty there, on a Thursday night. Rebecca's mother, Margaret Harwell, might be home. For some reason, she'd always been kind to Tucker, even after things had gotten rocky between him and her daughter.

  She'd have Rebecca's number, and she'd be happy to give it to him. In the few times they'd talked over the years, Margaret always tried to tell Tucker things he didn't want to hear about the son he never saw. He couldn't bear to hear them, but he hadn't been able to try to make her stop when she started sending the pictures twice a year.

  He flipped through his contact list and clicked on her name. "Margaret? This is Tucker. I need a favor."

  "Oh." She was quiet for a moment, surprised to hear from him. "Of course, dear. What can I do?"

  "Rebecca's phone number."

  He heard a choking sound, a half laugh, half cry. "Oh, Tucker. I'm so glad."

  "I..." His nerves were getting to him, and his voice was harsher than it should have been. "Oh, God, Margaret."

  "He needs you, Tucker. They both do. You need them, too."

  She gave him a Tallahassee number, and he wrote it down with a shaky hand.

  He said goodbye quickly, hung up the phone and let his eyes wander around the cold, expensive room. He kept the place empty, like his life was these days.

  There was nothing to capture his attention but the phone, the number and somewhere a picture of a little boy with sad brown eyes.

  Tucker swallowed hard and lifted the receiver, wondering what sort of reception he'd receive.

  Did Rebecca still hate him? She had a right to. Would she try to keep him away from their son? He hoped not. He didn't want to fight with her.

  He messed up the number the first time, had to disconnect and dial again.

  "Hello?" The voice on the other end was quiet and small. A little boy's voice.

  Ahh, damn! It wasn't Rebecca.

  Why had he been so sure Rebecca would answer the phone?

  Tucker opened his mouth twice before he got any sound out. "Sammy?"

  "Yes."

  So small, so easily hurt. What had he done?

  "Sammy, this is—" He had no idea what to say. A six-year-old wouldn't remember someone he last saw when he was only a few months old. And whether Sammy knew about him or not, he sure wouldn't know Tucker as his dad.

  "Sammy, this is... Tucker."

  Silence hummed across the line.

  Tucker felt his heart crack open inside his chest. He wasn't sure he could go on, but he couldn't hang up on the boy.

  "Sammy? Is your mother there?"

  "Uh-huh."

  So little, surely so confused, so fragile.

  The picture, now lying on the table, was still clear in Tucker's mind. The bright candles on the cake, six of them for the years and one to grow on. The smile on the boy's lips that didn't reach his eyes. Sad brown eyes. How could a little boy looking at his birthday cake seem so sad?

  "Could you go get your mom for me, Sammy?"

  "Uh-huh."

  And he heard it then, heard that sadness in the timid little voice, heard it shoot across the miles that separated them, across the years, until it practically shouted at him.

  Fool, his conscience taunted him. You had it all, and you threw it all away.

  He heard a little sob come across the line, then another. He was shocked to feel tears pool in his own eyes and run down his face, one after another. He would have bet money he didn't know how to cry anymore.

  All this time... what had he done?

  "Sammy?" He choked on the name. He got to his feet and started to pace.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Your mom?"

  "Okay... Tucker?" Neither one of them breathed. "Tucker... my dad?"

  As that innocent question reached him, feelings he'd denied for so long, buried so deep in his soul, came bubbling up inside him, and he was sure he was going to choke. His legs gave out in mid-step, and he sat down hard.

  "Tucker... my dad?"

  He heard it again and again, little sobs coming so clearly through the telephone he was holding so tight, he wouldn't be surprised if it snapped in two in his hand.

  "Yes, Sammy. I'm your dad."

  The little boy didn't say anything else. Once more Tucker heard a sob, a sniffle, a swish he suspected came from a little hand being pulled past a runny nose, then a clatter that must have been the phone landing hard on something.

  He heard a door open in the background, and then his little boy started to yell.

  "Mommy!"

  * * *

  "Sammy? We're out here on the deck," Rebecca called.

  "Mommy!"

  The distress was much stronger than that of a little boy merely looking for his mother. She jumped up and met him at the French doors. Kneeling down on one knee in front of him, she saw the tear-stained face, the frightened eyes, the trembling lower lip.

  Rebecca pulled him close. "Oh, baby. What's the matter?"

  "Not a baby." The protest was muffled against her shirt.

  "Of course not." She smiled as she whispered against sweet-smelling, sandy-blond hair.

  She should have known better than to call him that. A seven-year-old know-it-all at the soccer field named Jimmy Horton had made fun of Sammy last week when he got upset about missing one-too-many balls. Jimmy Horton must also have told Sammy big boys didn't cry, because ever since that game he worried about that, too. Sammy was always worried about something.

  She kissed the top of his head and squeezed him again. "Now, what's the trouble?"

  Rebecca tried to pull away from him so she could see his face, but Sammy's skinny little arms held on for all he was worth and he nuzzled against her.

  "Man on the phone," he whimpered.

  She saw now that the phone was lying on top of the table.

  "What did he say to you, Sammy?"

  "My dad."

  "What?" Rebecca was sure she hadn't heard him correctly. Very carefully, very deliber
ately, she untangled herself from Sammy so she could look him in the eye and hear him clearly. "Who's on the phone?"

  Sammy sniffled once more and raked the back of one hand across his eyes, eyes that shimmered with even more tears and made him look as if his heart had broken. "He says he's my dad."

  Surely not, Rebecca thought. So much time had gone by, and the break had been so complete.

  When Tucker Malloy was done with a woman, he was done. He didn't look back. He didn't try to hang on, even if the woman was the mother of his child.

  Yet she eyed the telephone suspiciously now, almost fearfully. She didn't understand what had gone wrong in their brief marriage, and she'd long since given up trying to. She no longer played that cruel game of what ifs. What if she'd been older, stronger, sexier, more sure of herself, more honest with him?

  The man had cut himself out of their son's life, too, and she'd wrestled with that for a long time, but she didn't allow herself to get mad about it anymore.

  Her anger had been too strong, too destructive. If she allowed herself to dwell on it, it would consume her very being. And she wasn't about to let Tucker have that kind of power over her.

  "Sammy, why don't you go outside with Brian for a minute? The stars are out. Ask him to show you the Big Dipper, okay?"

  Sammy must have agreed, because she heard his footsteps as he headed outside, then heard the door close behind him. She stared at the phone.

  Surely not, she thought, her heart pounding as she picked up the phone. "Who is this?"

  "Rebecca?"

  Oh, dear Lord. She'd never forget that voice, never forget the pain they had brought to each other. A half-dozen years ago she would have done anything to hang on to that man. Now she simply wanted to be left alone.

  "What do you want, Tucker? And what in God's name did you say to my son?"

  "I'm sorry." She heard a long, heavy sigh. "I didn't mean to upset him."

  "Upset him? It's been nearly six years without so much as a peep out of you, Tucker." He didn't say anything, and Rebecca laughed. "He doesn't even know you, nothing but your name. As far as he's concerned, he doesn't even have a father. And after all this time, you think you can just pick up the phone and say, 'Hi. You may not remember me, but this is your father.'"