Perfect Chance

by Amanda Carpenter

  Mary’s eyes and face brightened until they were glowing. I believe her, she thought. I wanted to believe him, and wasn’t sure I should, but she’s so straightforward and there’s no reason for her to be anything but honest…A weight, previously unnoticed, left her and she felt buoyant. She confessed shyly, “I’m going out with him on Saturday.”

  “To the fair. I know, he told me. And he had fun with Tim last night,” she said with a twinkle.

  “Oh, did he? That’s good. I know Tim had a great time. He couldn’t talk about anything else this morning.” Thinking about Saturday and how she’d canceled with Victor made her eyes cloud over. She scooped a morsel of cheesecake from her plate onto her finger and let the cat lick it off. Chance said Cassie was a good person to talk to, and she was such a good listener. “Cassie, we don’t know each other very well yet, but may I confide in you about something?”

  “Of course.” The other woman’s voice was kind.

  It all spilled out in a tumbled rush. The two years with Victor, the two days with Chance, the passion, the perplexity, the proposal. Even the pickle jar came out. Wanting children and more fun in her life, and the choking feeling she had whenever she went to work. When she started to confess how guilty she’d felt canceling her date with Victor to go out with Chance, and how she’d put him off when he proposed to her, Cassie frowned.

  “You’ve been dating Victor for two years,” she said slowly, “and he asked you to marry him yesterday?”

  She had begun chewing a thumbnail. Was that disapproval she saw in Cassie’s face? “Yes,” she said quietly. “But I didn’t—I didn’t accept. I just didn’t tell him the whole truth yet.”

  Cassie tapped her fingers on the table, a thoughtful scowl on her face. “Well, my, my, my,” she said after a moment. “There’s something you ought to know, sugar. I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

  Mary started to feel terrible without knowing why. Was it something about Chance? Maybe he was deeply involved with somebody else, and Cassie thought she should know all the facts before she made a decision about Victor.

  Cassie reached out to take her hand, looking steadily into her eyes. “I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’ll just say it. Victor called me and we went out Tuesday night. I asked him how serious the two of you were, and he said not serious.”

  She wasn’t sure she was hearing right. Her mind and body seemed to be encased in mud. “Not serious?” she echoed slowly.

  “He even called this morning and asked if he could see me Saturday, for heaven’s sake.” Cassie’s green eyes snapped. “I never got around to telling him Chance is my brother, and he didn’t have a clue you and I would be talking. Why would he, after all the tensions on the Fourth?”

  “But…” Slowly the mud boiled away, leaving behind incredulity, hurt, outrage. Victor had proposed to her. Victor was seeing Cassie, had every intention of continuing to see Cassie after he’d told her—how had he put it? That he certainly didn’t want to see anyone else. Her hand spasmed tight on the cat, and startled, it meowed and sprang away. Two years of trust, a valued friendship—if they hadn’t had anything else but that, she’d have thought surely at least they’d had that. Her breathing grew rapid, and her mouth trembled.

  “I don’t know what to say, Mary.” Cassie was looking at her sadly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t. It wasn’t your fault.” She rubbed her forehead. The anger was growing. “Cassie, may I use your phone?”

  “Of course you can.” The older woman stood and handed her a cordless phone. “Are you going to call him?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  Mary watched her own shaking fingers dial. Victor had the early shift at the hospital. He would be smiling, joking with the nurses and the other doctors, soothing traumatized patients. She asked for him and waited, and one small, bewildered part of her mind asked, could there be a mistake? Some kind of horrible, twisted misunderstanding? Should I give him a chance to explain?

  Then his smooth, cultured voice sounded in her ear, and she erupted. “You son of a bitch!” she hissed.

  “What the hell—Mary?” Victor exclaimed.

  She overrode him, spitting fury. “I know what you did, and I know what you were going to do! You and I are through. Don’t you ever call me again, and as far as I’m concerned if you have anything to say to me at work, you better call me Dr. Newman!”

  He spoke sharply. “God—Mary, what’s got into you? I haven’t done anything. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Whatever else I may or may not have done, I have never lied to you! Not ever! And I tr-trusted you to do the same for me!” She swiped at her burning eyes. “And oh, by the way, Victor—my good friend Cassie Grant doesn’t want to see you, either! She’s right here, if you want to ask her for yourself!”

  Dead silence. Then, “Mary?”

  “What?” she cried. “What can you say, Victor?”

  “I can explain—”

  “Oh, save it for your next fiancée!” she snapped, and slammed down the phone.

  Dead silence in Cassie’s kitchen, as well.

  “Well,” Mary said, “I feel better.” Then she burst into tears, and was turned, then pulled into a pair of welcoming, cradling arms.

  She didn’t have any poise or pride left. She buried her face in Cassie’s neck and sobbed it all out. Cassie rocked her and stroked her hot face, and when the storm finally ended, she said, “There, sugar. Why don’t you go wash your face and I’ll put on some tea? Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  She nodded, sniffing, but then she caught sight of the clock over the refrigerator, and her face crumpled again as she felt her stomach bottom out. “Oh, God— I’m supposed to be at work in forty-five minutes, and Victor’s there—”

  “You don’t have to go in today,” Cassie said quietly. “It’s really too much to expect from yourself, Mary.”

  After a moment she nodded. Then she called the hospital again, told them she wouldn’t be coming in, and as Cassie made tea, she went upstairs to the comfortable, tiled bathroom to wash her face and pull the shattered pieces of herself together.

  She could hear Cassie speaking on the phone. Not wanting to think about who she might be talking to, Mary wandered through the rest of the second story. A large bedroom, obviously Cassie’s, a smaller guest room, the living room facing the street. It was cheerful and had a fireplace, and was filled with plants and patchwork pillows and bright prints with a fantasy theme.

  Exhausted, Mary curled up on the large couch with a heavy sigh. She should call home and let them know where she was. She would, in a minute. She closed her sore eyes and fell asleep.

  Muffled voices woke her up. A woman’s and a man’s. She looked around fuzzily, not knowing where she was for a moment. Then she remembered, and she dropped her head into her hands.

  Don’t think about Victor, Mary. He’s not worth it. You don’t have to face him until tomorrow, and by then you’ll have figured out how to face him.

  She pictured telling Tim and her grandfather about him and mentally cringed. Well. She didn’t have to face that just yet, either.

  The woman speaking was Cassie.

  The man was Chance.

  Chance? Her gaze darted around, fell on a clock on the mantel, which said half past four. She’d slept for over two hours. What was Chance doing here?

  She touched her puffy cheeks and eyelids gingerly and patted her braid. It was crooked, and tendrils of hair had slipped out. She struggled to her feet, tiptoed to the bathroom, and stared at the horror in the mirror. Eyes swollen and red-rimmed, skin splotchy, hair like a scarecrow’s—she wanted to crawl into the bathtub and pull the shower curtain.

  Maybe Chance had just stopped by to borrow something. Maybe he would go away in a few minutes and she would only have to face Cassie. Facing Cassie was all right; the other woman had already seen her pride as dented as it could get. Hurriedly she shook o
ut the rest of the braid and brushed her hair. Then she listened at the bathroom door. She couldn’t hear anything. Maybe that meant he’d gone.

  She opened the door and tiptoed out, head ducked, and bumped into someone’s chest. It was a very large chest, and male, covered with a butter-soft, fawn-colored chamois shirt and smelling of a familiar, sensual after-shave. Her shoulders hunched, and her head ducked farther. The ground never opened up when she wanted it to.

  “I happen to be going home now,” she whispered without looking up. “Excuse me, please.”

  He folded his arms around her snugly, and something like a croon rumbled from his chest to her. “Cassie told me what happened. I’m sorry you got hurt, Mary.”

  He said it so gently, tears pricked her eyes. She balled her hands into fists and shuddered. “I’m not going to cry anymore, dammit,” she gritted. Somehow her face got plastered into his chest. “And don’t you look at me.”

  A pause. He fitted a hand to the back of her head and stroked her hair. “I have my eyes closed now.”

  “Promise?” The sharp chill of the pain was easing as his body warmth seeped into her.

  “Promise.” He pressed his mouth to the top of her head. “Can you bear to hear my opinion?”

  “What?” Her arms crept around his waist, and she rested against him. He shifted slightly, planting his legs farther apart to take her weight.

  “He wasn’t right for you. Even if he’d been what he seemed to be. He’s not your…type.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair.

  She rubbed her cheek against his soft shirt and, incredibly, found herself smiling. “How do you know what my type is?”

  “I know.”

  “So what is my type?” She inhaled deeply, such a private pleasure, and took his scent inside.

  “Someone who takes you out to play, who wants to father your children, who would rather see you walk away from your career if it doesn’t make you happy,” he said quietly. “Someone who likes your finches, and your brother, and who doesn’t give a damn if you’re stinking rich or dirt poor. And someone who thinks you’re beautiful even when your face is all splotchy from crying, although he’d want to do everything he could to keep you from crying.” He paused thoughtfully. “Someone who doesn’t like the country club. Yes, I think I’ve got it.”

  He was reading her like a road map. How had he gotten to know her so quickly and so well? By the time he had finished speaking, Mary had tilted back her face to stare up at him, wide-eyed.

  Looking at him while he spoke was almost like looking into a puddle of water. She could see the image he created, but she was afraid to reach out and touch it, for fear that it would break into ripples and disappear.

  “You paint a pretty seductive picture,” she said unsteadily.

  “You painted it, Mary.” He traced the delicate skin under her eyes. “I’m only telling you what I see. And there was no place in that picture for Victor, was there?”

  “No.”

  His eyes crinkled at her. Soul-stealer’s eyes; she could see herself, tiny and unblinking, overlaid on the rich hazel. “No. Although I don’t approve of his methods, I can’t blame the guy for trying to fit into it. Just don’t cry over him any more, all right?”

  She smiled, and it was a gentle, more serene beginning. “All right.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. It was such a simple, chaste caress she felt vaguely disappointed, but also grateful that she wouldn’t have to cope with more right now. “Cassie’s taken a great many liberties, I’m afraid. She not only called me, but she also called your home and told your grandfather you were over here. And she’s cooking dinner. So it’s all arranged. You’ve got to stay now or you’ll disappoint her, and she’ll ruin my evening.”

  She chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that. I better go down and see if I can help.”

  “It stopped raining while you were asleep, so I’m to grill the hamburgers. Do you like beer?” Still talking, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and walked with her down the stairs.

  Cassie was chopping eggs, and the kitchen was filled with the homey smell of baking bread. There was an apple pie ready for the oven on the counter. She looked up as Chance and Mary appeared and blew a strand of curling red hair out of her eyes.

  “There you are,” she said comfortably as Chance went out back to light the charcoal. “Want to tear up some spinach for the salad? What do you think— baked potatoes or French fries?”

  “French fries, please,” Mary said happily, and got to work.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MARY’S grandfather was livid the next morning when she told him about Victor. Very much gratified, she paused to collect her thoughts so that she could approach telling Tim in a much more careful fashion. After all, Victor had been a part of Mary’s life for a long time, and so, in a smaller way, a part of Tim’s. She omitted the details about Cassie and told Tim that she and Victor had reached a point where they had to decide whether they would continue to see each other or not, and they had decided not to.

  Tim, who had been fixing the gears of his bike in the garage, straightened slowly and asked, “Are you all right, Mary?”

  Her insides melted. He sounded so adult, so concerned. She hugged him tightly and said, “I’m fine, really. It’s all over, and that’s kind of sad, but in a way it’s good, too. Are you all right?”

  He looked surprised. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be? I never liked him all that much anyway. He wasn’t right for you, you know.”

  Mary closed her eyes, feeling a deep chagrin. Did everybody see that but me? She left her brother to his tinkering and went inside to get ready for work.

  Her initial reluctance about going to work had turned into an outright dread. But no matter how she felt about it, the E.R. was as much her territory as it was Victor’s, and she hadn’t done anything wrong. She didn’t have to speak to him except professionally, and after she’d calmed down enough to think about it, she suspected that he wouldn’t try to speak to her. Victor wouldn’t want to face the possibility of a nasty private scene at the hospital. It wouldn’t look good. People would talk.

  She marched into the hospital that afternoon, reassured the nurses that she was feeling much better now, and plunged into work. As she had thought, Victor avoided her, and while she didn’t enjoy the long hours any more than she usually did, it could have been much worse.

  Her relief came in at seven on Saturday, but she had to stay another hour to help with a traffic accident. When she got home, she ate breakfast, showered, and fell into bed at nine. No time to herself, no time to reflect, to think things over properly, to spend time with Tim. Something had to change.

  She slept like the dead until her radio alarm went off at five o’clock. Mary rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, while the late-afternoon sun streamed across her bed and the disc jockey on the radio promised good weather for the rest of the weekend.

  Good weather, she thought fuzzily. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed full of dry cotton. That’s supposed to mean something.

  “…and it’s the last night of the county fair, folks, so get on out there and enjoy!” crowed the radio.

  The fair. Chance. Six o’clock. Oh, God! She only had an hour to get ready. She leapt out of bed and raced toward her bathroom.

  She dressed sensibly in jeans and sneakers, a bright red paisley sleeveless top with a scalloped neckline and a matching bow at the nape of the neck. Some red lipstick and she was ready.

  Forty-five minutes later she was wandering restlessly around the first floor pretending to find small tasks to occupy herself with. She straightened the already-neat books on three shelves in the library, carefully inspected all the plants in the sun-room— Janice always kept them well, and they were in fine shape, but gardening was another thing she missed having time for—and was alphabetizing the spices in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  She raced for the door, collided with Tim in the front hall, and abruptly realized what she was do
ing. “Go on, get the door,” she told her bewildered brother, and pivoted to run into the study, where her grandfather was watching a movie on PBS. “Hi, Grampa,” she said breathlessly as she skidded to a stop and perched on the arm of his chair.

  Chance and Tim were talking in the hall. Wallis squinted up at Mary with a frown. “Done inspecting the house?” he said gruffly.

  Her cheeks pinkened. Footsteps approached. “What’re you watching?”

  “Not gonna answer, huh?” he muttered. “I want to meet this young man who’s got Tim so talkative and you so flustered.”

  “I’m not flustered. Don’t you dare say that to anybody,” she hissed in his ear as Chance and Tim appeared in the doorway. She changed the whisper into a kiss on the cheek. Wallis grunted with laughter, patting her hand, and they both turned to the new arrival.

  Chance had a companionable arm draped around Tim’s shoulders. He was dressed in tight, faded jeans, as well, with a forest green shirt rolled up at the sleeves. The color brought out the burnished gold of his hair and deepened the richness of his tan.

  His gaze winged to her immediately, and he smiled slowly. He was so lazily, prowlingly sexy the breath whoofed out of her in a silent rush as she smiled back.

  Tim was laughing at something he’d said. Wallis gripped the arm of his chair, eyes glittering, and barked out, “So, young man. You want to take my granddaughter out tonight, do you? What have you got to say for yourself?”

  Mary’s head snapped around and she stared at her grandfather in surprise. He’d never acted so bristly with Victor. What had gotten into him? “Grampa!”

  Wallis looked at her unrepentantly. “What?”

  A dancing light had entered Chance’s eyes. Suddenly he looked devilish, unpredictable. He drawled, “Why, I say that I’m looking forward to having a good time tonight. Hi, Mary. You look great. Nice to meet you, Mr. Newman. I’ve heard good things about you.”