Second Chance (Cold Springs Series Book 1)

by Henderson, Nancy

  ~ * ~

  The pale blue-and-white-trimmed Victorian stood at the corner of Lee and Town Streets in the heart of Cold Springs. Her mother’s home. Not the home Sam grew up in. That had been lost in an ugly and complex divorce. Mom had bought this place five years ago after her books took off. She’d used a down payment solely from her royalty checks on her writing. A feat Sam found both amazing and intimidating for an author who wrote strictly for small presses and did not receive monetary advances. In Sam’s line of work—past line of work—her clients needed advances to survive. That told you the sheer volume of books her mother sold on her own.

  Sam pushed that aside and knocked.

  “Door’s open.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “The spare room is upstairs on your left,” her mother called from the kitchen. “You can put your things in there.”

  “I thought it was to the right,” she answered. Sam didn’t have any belongings. She had made it distinctly clear that she was staying at Aunt Jean’s—her own place—now.

  “Oh, I converted that room over to a media room.”

  Sam hadn’t remembered that from the last time she’d visited. Of course, the last time she’d been to Cold Springs had been last Christmas, and Mother had been on deadline so she’d felt like she was staying alone. Sam understood what it meant for a writer to have deadlines, but she was also her daughter.

  She glanced at the wide, sweeping oak staircase. Mother had done a lot with the place, papering the walls in floral wallpaper typical to the period in which the house was built.

  She walked down the hall toward the kitchen, by a room at the foot of the stairs and stopped. The door to Mother’s writing room was open. Sam hadn’t seen it in years. Guilt hit her fast and hard. She had visited the offices of her author clients on occasion but couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother’s. She stepped inside.

  A monstrous desk engulfed much of the room, and an equally huge computer monitor sat on top of it. Posters of her book covers covered most of the wall space, clinch covers of men and women posed in various compromising positions; books all bearing titles with the name of body parts in them. Mother’s pen name, June Alibaster, was displayed on all of them.

  Mother didn’t use a pen name for the most common reason authors used pen names, to distinguish between genres so readers would not be confused or disappointed. She wrote only one genre: erotic romance. Sam wondered if deep down Mother was ashamed of what she wrote. If she didn’t want people to know what she wrote, why didn’t she write something less risqué? But of course, Sam knew why: money. Erotic romance was one of the biggest selling genres of all time, and writers could make a decent living from it.

  Sam noticed a framed award on the far wall. “June Alibaster, Best Erotic Series.” Sam was surprised. She knew her mother was prolific, and she knew her books sold well, but as far as being well written…Sam had never read one of her mother’s books.

  Sam should be ashamed of herself. Was she really that uptight that she couldn’t read eroticism? Her agency didn’t represent it, but she could have certainly seen what kind of stories her mother wrote. Maybe it had more to do with not wanting to read about sex derived from her mother’s imagination…?

  She went out and found her mother in the kitchen. It was a gourmet kitchen, totally remodeled with granite countertops and every appliance a cook could dream of. Ironically, Mother rarely if ever cooked. She just simply wanted the best of the best.

  Styrofoam containers scattered the kitchen island, along with plastic utensils and paper towels. “Hi, Mom.”

  Madelaine Stone looked much younger than sixty-four. Her hair was dyed deep auburn and cropped high above her shoulders in the latest fashion. She wore casual but classy dress: tan capris and sandals, a white-ribbed tee with a light sweater over it.

  “Hello, Samantha.”

  Guilt pierced Sam as she searched her mother’s face for a hint of longing but found none. Perhaps she hid it well. Sam wondered if she should move in for a hug but decided against it. Aunt Jean never had hesitations with hugging. With Mother, you were always left to wonder. Sam didn’t understand how two sisters could be so different.

  “I thought I’d just do sandwiches.” Mother rushed around the kitchen like a sparrow. “The grocery has a new remodeled deli area. There’s plates over there. Your sister will be here any minute.”

  Speaking of differences. Theresa lived three houses down from Mother in another Victorian house with her three daughters and lawyer husband, Shawn. Theresa and Mother shared coffee every morning and spoke often. Mother never failed to mention it to Sam.

  Sam tried not to feel resentful, but it was difficult. Theresa had been homecoming queen, had married her high school sweetheart, captain of the football team, had given Mother three gorgeous grandchildren, who were now all getting straight As and excelling at sports. What was not to love?

  Sam dished a portion of potato salad and helped herself to a turkey sandwich on a Kaiser roll. She wondered if the meal would be suitable for Theresa because it wasn’t fancy.

  As if on cue, she heard her sister’s minivan pull up. Since she lived three doors down, Sam wondered why Theresa drove instead of walked, but she guessed walking was likely beneath her.

  Sam’s two nieces, Maggie and Justine, and nephew, Michael, piled in the house, banging the screen door on the front porch.

  “Hi, Grandma!”

  Mother hugged them all at once. They quickly scattered, each knowing the way around the house like they’d been there often. One of the girls stopped, stared at Sam.

  Sam crouched down to meet her at eye level. “Hi, Maggie. How are you?”

  Maggie looked scared. She looked around for her mother.

  “Can you say hi to your Aunt Samantha, honey?” Theresa’s voice was more command than question.

  “Hi, Aunt Samantha” came Maggie’s robotic response.

  “Kids, come say hi to your aunt.”

  Each child filed in, giving Sam a peck on the cheek, each greeting just as mechanical as the next. Guilt hit her, and she wondered if they would be so stoic if she had chosen not to move so far away. Or if she’d come to visit more often.

  “They’d know you better if you had more contact with them.” Theresa gave her a quick peck on the cheek. And there it was. Thanks, Theresa.

  “How are you, Theresa?”

  Theresa sighed. “Oh, you know. Running the kids here and there. Who has time to do much else? You’re looking good. Of course, you have time to take care of yourself, having no kids or husband.”

  Sam ignored the backhanded compliment. Theresa was always full of them, always pointing out what she assumed was wrong with her life. “How’s Shawn?”

  “Doing very well. He’s about to make senior partner at his firm.”

  Sam pasted a smile on her face. Shawn Maxx, Theresa’s gorgeous, successful, wealthy lawyer husband was doing very well. Of course, he was. How would he be doing anything but? Anyone in Theresa’s life was always doing very well.

  “And your sister’s president of the PTA now,” Mother said.

  “That’s great.”

  Theresa smiled and helped herself to a stack of plates from the cupboard.

  “There’s paper plates on the counter.” Mother gestured.

  “We don’t use them.” Theresa cut her off as she placed the pre-made turkey sandwiches on each plate. “It’s not good table manners. Kids! Lunch is ready.”

  One by one, her children filed in. “I don’t like turkey.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “I bought paper to save on dishes.” Mother’s tone was annoyed.

  Theresa looked at her as if Mother had lost her mind. “I’m not having my children raised like animals.”

  “By eating on paper plates?” Sam broke her silent vow not to get involved.

  “Oh, like you’d know how to raise kids.” Theresa snorted.

  Maggie wrinkled her nose. “Mom, turkey’s gross!”


  “So is potato salad,” Justine chimed.

  “Well, just…hold on. Mommy’ll get you something else.” Theresa rushed around like a chicken with her head cut off. Sam was exhausted just watching her. As if she owned the place, she opened every cupboard until she found a jar of peanut butter. She then grabbed a jar of jelly from the refrigerator. “Don’t you have anything but marmalade?”

  “I think there’s some apricot preserve left in the door.”

  “I want grape jelly!” Theresa’s youngest, Mike, screamed at an ear-splitting decibel.

  “I’m getting it, honey.”

  “Grape jelly!”

  “Apricot?” Theresa stuck three-quarters of her body in the fridge. “Who eats that stuff?”

  “I happen to like it on my bagels.” Mother made no move to assist in the search for grape jelly.

  “I’m not eating apricot or marmalade!” Maggie folded her arms across her chest.

  “Grape jelly!”

  Theresa emerged from the refrigerator with both jars of marmalade and apricot spread. “You’re going to have to make do with what Grandma has. Maybe next time she goes to the store she’ll remember what her grandchildren like to eat.”

  “Nooo!” With that, Mike threw himself on the floor and proceeded to display the most violent fit of temper Sam had ever witnessed. Theresa picked him up as he flailed and threw his head back, raging and wailing. “Mikey, please. Be a good boy for Mommy. Please eat like a nice boy, and we’ll go home and watch any movie you want today, okay?”

  “How come he gets to choose?” the girls started in.

  “Because I said so!” Theresa snapped as Mike’s hand came down hard across Theresa’s face. “Mikey, please. Now eat nicely and we’ll watch a movie later, okay?”

  “PB and Js on fine china.” Sam couldn’t help it. She met Theresa’s look of scorn with a wide smirk.

  Sam held her sister’s glare as long as possible but was the first to look away.

  They sat down at the table.

  “So you’re taking over Aunt Jean’s diner.” There was that look on her face, like Theresa thought it was a crazy idea.

  “I am.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I have a lot of work ahead.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Theresa cut her sandwich with a knife.

  “You’re right. It is a lot of work.” She’d already submitted her business plan and got the startup loan she needed to stock the diner and do minor repairs. Plus she had rolled her 401K over to an IRA. She didn’t want to touch it, but it was there if need be.

  “Aunt Jean was a wonderful person, God rest her soul, but she was no businesswoman. She didn’t have a clue what she was doing.”

  “She ran it for over thirty years,” Sam was quick to defend. “I should think she had some idea what she was doing.”

  “Yes, and she barely scraped by. She never had a vacation her entire life.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want one.”

  Theresa laughed. “Who wouldn’t want or need a vacation?”

  Sam did her best to maintain composure. Theresa and Shawn went to a five-star resort every winter. Mother told her about them every year.

  “Don’t get mad, Sam.” Theresa touched her arm. “All I’m saying is that you should have thought this through. You don’t know the first thing about running a business. I don’t want to see you fail, but frankly, I can’t see anything else happening with this.”

  “She can get her old job back,” Mother added.

  “Well, that’s good, at least.”

  Sam hated that she felt the need to defend herself. “I won’t need to get my old job back. I will make this work. You’ll see.”

  This time, Theresa placed both hands on her arm. “If you want to come back to Cold Springs permanently, I think that’s great. I’d love to have you close by. We all would. I just don’t see this diner as a viable prospect. You could get yourself a nice office job in the city and commute. That would be a whole lot less stressful. Don’t you want less stress?”

  Sam wanted to ask Theresa how she knew what amount of stress she could handle, but she held her tongue. She hadn’t finished her sandwich yet, but she suddenly felt full and threw the container in the trash and stood. “I’m going back to the diner and do some work.”

  “So soon?” Mother asked. “You just got here.”

  “Well, like I said, I have a lot of work to do. It’s not going to get done by itself.”

  “Why don’t you do the sensible thing?” Theresa called to her as she made her way out the door. “Sell the place and share the money with us.”

  Sam stopped cold in her tracks. Mother and Theresa had inherited nothing from Aunt Jean’s estate. Aunt Jean had left everything in her bank account to Burt and all her possessions and the diner to Sam.

  Sam couldn’t deny that the situation was awkward at best. Sam would have thought Aunt Jean would leave something to Mother, being that they were sisters. And to Theresa? Perhaps Aunt Jean was like the majority and thought Theresa already had everything. Nevertheless, perhaps Sam should have fought the will, demanded that the diner and all Jean’s possessions be sold at auction and the proceeds split evenly.

  But she hadn’t. She wanted this diner. She wanted to make a new life here in Cold Springs where everyone knew everyone and people could be trusted.

  And she wanted to think the best of her family. Even Theresa.

  Silently, she let herself out and went back to the diner.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sam’s blood was boiling by the time she got back to the diner. The more she thought about her perceived obligation to sell the diner and split the money with them, the more irritated she became. She had every single right to inherit this diner. It was what Aunt Jean wanted. Theresa and Mother hadn’t even spent any time with her. Like the time she came down with pneumonia, who had been the one to fly all the way back here and take care of her? Not Theresa and Mother, that was for sure.

  Sell it and split the money with them! Theresa had to get the last dig in. Every. Single. Time.

  Sam didn’t know what it was about her sister that angered her. Maybe because she was the favorite in their mother’s eyes. Sam had grown up under the scrutiny of a mother who expected both daughters to be track stars or homecoming queens, and when Sam didn’t deliver…Theresa rose to the top. Maybe that’s why she never read her mother’s books.

  Letting herself in the front door of the diner, Sam had trouble shutting it again and had to body slam it to get it to line up correctly to be locked. She’d have to hire a contractor to take a look at that.

  She remembered the man who had phoned her cell earlier. Ian Woods. If Burt recommended him, he was probably reliable. Maybe she shouldn’t have given him the cold shoulder. It was just that all she could think of was the Ian Woods she’d gone through school with. How embarrassing would it be if he turned out to be one and the same? Facing him after his rejection, even after all these years, would still be humiliating.

  Sam could still recall every detail of that night so long ago. She’d saved for months to buy a prom dress, and rehearsed for weeks how she would ask Ian to accompany her. She’d almost passed out when he’d said yes. Just thinking about it brought back a rush of nerves. She waited hours for him to come by and pick her up. Theresa laughed it up when she found out Sam had been stood up. She’d reiterated that the whole thing had been set up as a joke on her, that someone like Ian Woods would want nothing to do with the geek girl brainiac.

  Despite all the years that had gone by, if Ian Woods was one and the same, Cold Springs was awfully small, and it was almost inevitable that they would cross paths, especially when she reopened the diner.

  Bypassing the kitchen that seriously needed cleaning, she hurried upstairs to the apartment. Mother had offered her spare bedroom if Sam wanted to stay there while she fixed up the upstairs apartment. Sam appreciated the offer but had refused. Living with Mother, even tem
porarily, especially with Theresa always intruding, was not going to work. She shouldn’t feel so irritated, but she couldn’t help it. Those two fed off each other and had a perfect way of pressing her buttons, even if they didn’t mean to. This was why she seldom came home to visit…and now she was here for good.

  She let herself in the apartment and shut the door. All the walls were painted white and were still in fairly good condition despite the dust. Built-in shelves and drawers lined one side of the one-room apartment. She stared at the salt and pepper shakers of various sizes and shapes which cluttered the shelves. Aunt Jean’s customers were always giving her shaker sets over the years. She had some from Cancun, a pair of slot machine shakers from Las Vegas, even a set replicating the Great Wall of China that a customer had given to her upon returning from a business trip overseas. The memories were too close, offering no place to run.

  There was an attic crawl space. She could box everything up and temporarily put Aunt Jean’s things in there for a while. At least for now so she wouldn’t feel so guilty, not as guilty as she would if she got rid of everything.

  She stepped into the bedroom. Aunt Jean’s bed was made. A single twin bed. Photos of friends at the diner lined one dresser. There was another of her mother when they were little. By the nightstand were framed photos of various sizes of her and Burt. They looked so happy together.

  Sam had no right removing any of these things without Burt’s permission. She thought about calling him, but it seemed too personal and felt she should do it in person. She quickly hurried downstairs, eager to be away from Aunt Jean’s personal things. It was like she were still alive up there. Like Sam was intruding.

  Which was certainly a problem Sam hadn’t foreseen. She had thought living upstairs would be fine. Just an empty apartment she could make her own. She hadn’t expected it to be so alive with a living memory of everything that was now gone.