SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION

by ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA®

  “Oops!” I covered my mouth with my palm, but I couldn’t completely block out my surprise. “Well, so what happened?”

  He inhaled and looked at me strangely. “Let’s see—uh, you, actually—among other things. She was mad because I’d been talking to you, plus there were about three thousand major and minor infractions I’d committed that day … and that month. She had sort of a jealous streak.” He exhaled but continued looking at me strangely. “Long story.”

  Okay, I may have failed to guess Kira’s name or real profession, but I’d totally nailed the jealous insecurity bit. I kept watching the guy standing in front of me, though, and was surprised to see the strange expression on his face morph into sadness, followed by hurt. Could he be missing Cherry, the fingernail-polish chick?

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I began, figuring I could at least offer my condolences on the relationship’s demise. “Are you all right? I have time, if you need to talk. I mean—I don’t know what to say, but—”

  “Don’t say anything. Don’t imagine anything. And, for mercy’s sake, don’t write anything.” His acerbic tone punctuated every syllable like a stylus jabbing at something. He pointed at me for further emphasis, and his face took on the menacing cast of a disgruntled literary critic. “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t look fine, but I merely squinted at him. After forbidding me to do the only three things I felt remotely qualified for and/or capable of, I was left with few options.

  Well, I also thought really hard. His problems with Cherry/Jessica/Kira weren’t my fault, I reasoned. He needed to learn to make better relationship choices. He should be more like my character Neil.

  Additionally, I wondered if crawling into a parallel literary reality of my own construction would disrupt the space-time continuum in both the real world and in the virtual one. I promised myself I’d check out Einstein’s books on the first floor of the store later.

  Meanwhile, the man in front of me tapped his chin with a curved index finger and pursed his lips, as if trying to hold back a cutting retort.

  After a time he sighed and said, “I guess Kira was more of a snobby Caroline Bingley than a witty Elizabeth Bennet anyway.”

  I was a little awed by this statement. He spoke of Jane Austen’s characters knowingly, as if he’d read Pride and Prejudice and understood all about faulty first impressions. Who was this guy?

  “In any case, it turned out she wasn’t my type.” He shrugged, flicked at his fingernails with his thumb, and then ran his hand through his hair.

  I was inexplicably tempted to fluff it the way his ex-girlfriend had once. I refrained.

  “So, in addition to your charming tale, I read your byline, too,” he continued. “Unless you write under a pseudonym, your real name is not Lily.”

  “Hm, well, yeah—that’s correct. The byline is accurate, not the character name,” I admitted. “But, who are you? I mean, who even reads Midwest Fiction Forum?” I waited and tried to project nonchalance although, by now, I was far from indifferent.

  He glared at me when I asked this, his eyes awash with a series of emotions—none of them positive. “How could you?” he exploded. “Seriously. How could you name me ‘Neil,’ of all names?” Then he crossed his arms with very believable indignation. “When I think of Neil, I think: Diamond. Sedaka. Young. I am not some ancient, semi-musical has-been who—”

  “You don’t like Neil Diamond?”

  “That’s beside the point. Listen, I have a chunky Uncle Neil, who’s really annoying. And my parents go to another Neil, their bald accountant, every year for their taxes. I do not look like a Neil!” He underscored this statement by banging his fist against the armrest.

  “Okay. You’re right, you’re right. It—it was a hasty, ill-considered choice.” I gripped my pen and noticed a few people staring at us from across the aisle in Travel & Vacation Guides. At the moment, I wanted to get away, too.

  He studied my face carefully, then exhaled—a stream of hot air, no doubt. A beat later he thrust his hand out at me. I debated whether or not to shake it, but curiosity won out. It was a warm hand with a good grip and enough roughness to remind me that he was a man. A pretty strong man, actually. How did he get those calluses on his fingers? Weight lifting? Carpentry? Playing guitar? I debated the possibilities.

  “I’m Art Cavendish—Artie to my friends—originally from St. Paul, Minnesota. Never been to Ipswich, Massachusetts, in my life, by the way, and I’m not preppy.” His eyes flicked up to the ceiling and down to my face. “And if you use me as the basis for a character again—and I mean ever—I do not want some lame-ass name. Rick isn’t bad. Something solid sounding like Steve or Brad is okay, but definitely not Neil, and none of those English names like Ian or Graham either. Or names with a y in the middle of them like Kyle or Daryl. Got it?”

  “Uh, yeah. No problem,” I said. “I’ll remember your preferences.”

  Then he flashed a grin at me, the intensity breaking its hold. For a second, he looked almost normal.

  “So, okay,” Artie said. “I’ve read a fair number of thrillers and some romantic suspense like your character, who shall remain nameless, but I’m revisiting the classics at the moment. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Sinclair Lewis. Some Oscar Wilde. And I’ve been watching Fellini flicks. 8 ½ is my favorite.”

  He paused while I nodded my approval.

  “I’m a set designer for a couple of small theaters in the city, and I’ve had an online subscription to Midwest Fiction Forum for about a year now. I do some scriptwriting, too.” He gave me an arch look. “I’d gone to the bookstore that night trying to get ideas to flesh out a character—someone who might be one of those socialite, home-entertainment types—when I saw you. You sort of fit the profile, so I came closer. Thought I’d poke around, try to read what you were writing.”

  My jaw dropped open. Wide enough for a robin to fly in and nest awhile.

  What?

  He thought I was a Martha Stewart type? Me? The girl who lived in ratty jeans and old college sweatshirts? Whose idea of “holiday decorating” consisted of putting up a thin strip of icicle window clings? Who wouldn’t know how to weave a dinner placemat or make a canapé if her life and future family tree depended on it?

  “Are you kidding?” I sputtered.

  “Yes,” he said, not bothering to disguise his amusement. “I’m just messing with you. You deserve it.” Then he collapsed even deeper into his comfy armchair, scanned my entire body from top to bottom like an MRI, before finally refocusing on my face, his lips twitching. “You’re pretty cute when you’re flustered.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed, genuinely surprised for the first time in a long time. I’d misread this guy. I’d gotten his real character wrong when I’d assessed him before—or, at least, it was grossly incomplete. He had an edginess to him that I liked but, right this second, he seemed almost relaxed and personable, with an offbeat sense of humor and a quick wit I hadn’t attributed to him in my story. I couldn’t deny that all of those qualities were as attractive to me as his hunky appearance. Possibly more so.

  I picked up one of my blank white note cards and waved it like a flag. “Truce?”

  “Maybe,” he said, but he was grinning. “So, were you really working on an article last spring?”

  “Yeah.” I pointed to the books on the floor and to my notes. “I’m doing it again tonight. Halloween costumes this time.” Despite our less than auspicious beginning, my radar registered something flattering: he might just be interested in me.

  “Ah,” Artie replied with a nod, running his fingers through his light, wavy hair—a signature tic, perhaps? I didn’t know him well enough to be sure. “Perhaps I should let you get back to your work. You must have a lot more to do.” He motioned toward the door but stayed seated, waiting. Waiting for me … maybe?

  “No, I’m done for tonight,” I decided. “Wouldn’t be able
to work on more of this now anyway.” I was conscious of eyeing him with interest, too, and of wanting to be utterly honest, even while I was flirting. “Having met you has put an end to my concentration for the day.”

  “Well, good. Glad I managed that at least.” He laughed for a moment at my expense. “So, what are you gonna do instead?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked toward the refreshment area. “Maybe get an espresso or a latté.” Then, taking a chance—one that required more courage than I’d expected—I asked, “Want some?”

  “Hell, no. Never touch that stuff.” He brushed imaginary dust off the arm of the chair and granted me a dimply grin. “Caffeine makes me edgy.”

  “I see.” I began collecting my belongings, trying not to look as dejected as I felt.

  I capped my pen and stood to leave when Artie chuckled, low but challenging. He shook his head. A few nearby customers turned their attention to us, guessing something semi-dramatic might be afoot. I, however, had no idea what would happen. Even the many fictional scenarios I could imagine didn’t give me relief in the moment. I wanted to know what this Art Cavendish guy would truly say next.

  “No coffee, but I’m fond of tea—herbal, in fact,” he explained, raising an eyebrow. Then, just in case I missed his intention, he pointed to the beverage counter.

  Incredulous, I asked, “For real, or are you teasing me again?”

  He nodded. “For real. Truth is stranger than fiction, you know.” He grinned and motioned once more toward the café. “C’mon, we’ve got a second chance to write a new ending to our story. A more accurate one, I hope. Let’s take it.” He stood and stretched his palm out toward me.

  As I took his hand, I squeezed and reveled in the actuality of the two of us connecting here and now, with the possibility of for always. It was a heady feeling. Then I said, “That’s a pretty good line. You might see it again. In print.”

  He squeezed my hand in return. “I’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”

  Marilyn Brant is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of contemporary women’s fiction, romantic comedy, and mystery. In 2013, she was named Author of the Year by the Illinois Association of Teachers of English. She loves Sherlock Holmes, travel, music, chocolate, and all things Jane Austen. Her Austen-inspired debut novel, According to Jane, won RWA’s prestigious Golden Heart® Award, and Buzzle.com named it one of the 100 Best Romance Novels of All Time. Marilyn’s romantic women’s fiction has been included in the Doubleday Book Club, Book-of-the-Month Club, Literary Guild, and Rhapsody Book Club. She’s also written several romantic comedies, like On Any Given Sundae, as well as a coming-of-age mystery called The Road to You. Her latest releases are sexy contemporary romances in her Mirabelle Harbor series, set on the shores of Lake Michigan, near her home in the Chicago suburbs.

  For updates, visit her website, http://www.marilynbrant.com.

  “WE NEED TO TALK.”

  With trembling hands, Mika Montrell tried to hold the edges of her towel in place around her body. Her throat went dry. She tried to swallow. Tried to breathe. Tears stung her eyes as the voice resounded in her mind. His unmistakable voice.

  Jabbing at her phone, she listened to the voicemail again. “We need to talk.” That’s all. No number. No name. But she didn’t need one. She knew exactly who it was.

  Her husband.

  She tried to hold in the tears. Tried to keep her knees from wobbling. To remain upright. Flung back to the devastation of the past, she failed. Clinging to her towel, she slid down the wall, collapsing on the floor.

  She hadn’t heard the phone ring from the shower. She hadn’t been prepared when she listened to the voicemail.

  Now, shaking so badly, she could hardly hold onto her cellphone, could hardly read the screen as she checked the number displayed. It wasn’t one she recognized, but that didn’t really surprise her. Either he’d gotten a new number since the last time they’d spoke, or he was using someone else’s phone, thinking she wouldn’t answer if she knew it was him.

  He’d been right.

  A tear fell. Another. “Fuck.” Mika dabbed the edge of the soft terrycloth to her face. She’d cried enough tears. Enough damn tears. It’d been three years since she left her husband, and she’d thought she was over the emotion. Apparently not. A sob escaped. Her body shook, shoulders aching with sorrow and tension. Air burned in her lungs, but her heart raced.

  Gathering herself, she pushed replay on her phone and put on the speaker so she could hear his voice fill the room. We need to talk. Again … We need to talk. Again … We need to talk. She played the message over and over. His voice, low and thick, still did things to her. Warmed her body. Stroked along her skin. Aroused her body as only he could. Reminded her of another time.

  Destroyed, she felt sucker punched in the gut, but that was ridiculous. She knew this day would come. Had expected it to come sooner. She was consumed with an intense combination of wanting him to call, to hear his voice and comforting words, and needing him to stay away. She’d had to leave him. None if it was his fault. Had never been his fault.

  It was all hers.

  How could she look at him after the death of their son? How could she look him in the eye and not feel an overwhelming and suffocating amount of guilt? How could she look at her husband and not be reminded of the infant son who was his spitting image—a tiny DNA replica—who’d been stolen away by sudden infant death syndrome.

  Everyone had assured and reassured her it wasn’t her fault. That it had been nothing she’d done and nothing she could’ve done. The doctors had told her, the coroner, her husband. But despite logic, how could she not blame herself? Why had she let him nap alone, and why hadn’t she checked him sooner? A mother is supposed to protect her child. She hadn’t. And Rye Junior—RJ—was gone.

  She’d left, too. Left her home, her husband, her friends, and family. For a while, she’d even thought she’d left her mind, slipping into deep and ugly depression. Not showering or eating. Rarely getting out of bed, except to work her online job enough to pay rent for her small apartment.

  Closing her eyes, Mika tilted her head against the wall. The towel wrapping her damp hair fell to the floor. She’d sat on the floor so long listening to his voice that her hair began to air dry. It’d be full of knots and a pain in the ass to comb through. She pushed the curls from her face and listened one more time to the message. She just needed to hear his tone. A small moan escaped her lips as she remembered his calls after she’d first left. A dozen or more daily, begging her—pleading with her—to come home, telling her how much he loved her, how much he needed her.

  She’d never returned a single one. Not even a single reply to a text. She’d shut him out of her life, wanting to rid herself of any reminder of her son. Many days, she hadn’t been sure if she wanted to survive this, but if she did, closing him out had been her only way. Eventually, the calls slowed to a few a day, then a few a week, then a few a month. Now, it’d been nearly two years since she’d heard from him.

  Mika sucked in a deep breath and tried to remember her husband during happier times. To remember how she loved him once—still—and how it felt to be loved by him. For so long, she’d only been able to remember the pain and horror on his beautiful face. How his light brown eyes had been tortured and twisted in loss and agony. She forced a memory of their wedding day. A memory of his smile—warm, welcoming. Engaging.

  Drawing strength from the vision, she opened her eyes and returned the call.

  It only rang once. “Mika?” His voice was deep, rough. The same languid drawl she’d adored whispered in her ear. A shiver danced across her skin.

  Taking a moment, she replied. “Yeah, Rye, it’s me.”

  Silence stretched. She could hear him breathing. Hear her pulse pounding in her ears. After what felt like forever, she heard him clear his throat.

  “I wasn’t sure if this
was still your number.”

  “I was in the shower.”

  Her husband remained silent as heat burned on her cheeks, realizing she’d just told him something as intimate as being completely naked. Her nipples beaded up tight, but Mika rolled her eyes at herself and pulled the towel more firmly around her chest. Must have been the air conditioner on full blast. Nothing else. Definitely not hearing Rye’s voice reverberate through her.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she continued, “You said we needed to talk. It’s been a long time, Rye. A long time … I figured I owed you at least a return call.”

  “Baby, you owe me a hell of a lot more than that.” His tone was thick with emotion. There was pain, but it was the anger that sent a shiver along her spine. He sounded filled with rage, and yet he called her baby as tenderly he always had.

  But he was right. She owed him his son. Guilt resurfaced with a vengeance. Mika used a corner of the towel to catch a stray tear. As much as she loved her husband—had always loved him—their future had died the same night as their son had.

  “You’re right,” she whispered. If she spoke any louder, he’d hear her voice crack on a sob.

  “Damn, baby.” He mumbled some curse words. They were muffled, hardly audible, but she knew him well enough to know. “Mika, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  She gulped. “Okay.” She wanted to feel the anger she heard in his tone. Wanted to feel anything but loss. Instead, it was as if the three years had melted away and she was as raw as if she’d left him yesterday. “You said we need to talk?”

  “Yeah. We do. But it should be in person. Can you meet me?”

  She didn’t want to. But it was time. Past time. She nodded, then rolled her eyes again knowing he couldn’t see her. “I guess so. What did you have in mind?”

  “That spot you liked on the corner of Truxel and Bell?”

  “Fireside Café? All right. When?”