Second Chance at Hope

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Bash it?” That didn’t sound good. Not at all.

  Again, Honora laughed. “In the miniatures world, we call it ‘kit bashing,’ and it means that you rework a kit to turn it into something new. Something beyond the original plans.”

  “Okay,” but I sounded dubious.

  “Let me show you.” She tapped the screen of the iPad that Santa had brought her for Christmas. “This is the original kit from last year.”

  A tiny garage appeared, complete with rolling door.

  “Here are the kit-bashed versions. Variations on a theme, as it were. So first I have to order the basic kit. While they are shipping it, I’ll brainstorm ways to make the kit unique. I’ll also survey what I own, so I can see what I’ll need to buy, if anything. I’ll also plan out what I can do in advance so it’s ready to go when I get to work. For example, if I want the project to have a tile roof, I should start making the tiles because they take time.”

  I scrolled through the finished Creatin’ Contest projects from the year before. Most of them bore no resemblance to the original kit. A few did if you concentrated on the bare bones of the structures, but even those had been thoroughly transformed.

  “Magical, isn’t it? Like so much of life, we tend to pigeonhole what we see and assign it certain properties. But each miniaturist approached the kit with a different vision. It’s wonderfully creative, isn’t it?” A sharp intake of breath preceded her next comment. “Cara? I overheard your discussion with Cooper. I’m a shameless eavesdropper. What will you do?”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I hesitated while Honora barreled on ahead.

  “People look at us, the elderly, and make assumptions. It’s true that none of us are as active as we once were. I have friends who have become childlike and cruel. Others who have mellowed with time. Of course, we didn’t know as much about taking care of our health as your generation does. Why, goodness me, I recall how they passed out cigarettes to me and my fellow students, urging us to smoke.”

  “You have to be kidding!”

  “No, I’m not. See, I grew up near Pinehurst in North Carolina, where tobacco farming was a typical form of employment. Getting us to become smokers was a way to support the industry. They didn’t want to believe that cigarettes were harmful, so the tobacco company executives lied to themselves. I know that because my uncle worked for one of them. Until the day he was diagnosed with lung cancer, he challenged the notion that smoking was harmful.”

  “Then what did he do?”

  Honora plucked at a strand of twine that she was turning into a basket. “At first, Uncle Floyd insisted that the diagnosis was wrong. He went for the chemo and the radiation, but he refused to give up cigarettes. Aunt Rose went along with the deception. She told my mother, ‘There’s no reason to make Floyd feel worse about his situation by pointing out he’s been wrong all these years. Or that other people died because he refused to accept the new information about causation.’ While he was being treated, Uncle Floyd continued to attend board meetings. Aunt Rose told my mother in confidence that he was afraid that if he put up a fuss, he’d be fired. Then they would have to fight for his medical benefits and for his pension.”

  I didn’t want to hear the end of the story. The churning in my gut told me there was no “happily ever after” involved. But I couldn’t tell Honora to stop. The train wreck was going to happen, and I was trapped in the role of spectator.

  “Uncle Floyd did everything he could to pretend he was getting well. He insisted on working, mowing the yard, and acting like life was normal. Aunt Rose told us that he refused to discuss what might happen if he died. One evening she heard a loud thump and found him on the floor in the bathroom. He was in and out of a coma for a month and a half.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Her smile was weak. “Yes, well, that was such a long, long time ago. I don’t know why I bothered you with such a sad story. To circle back to the beginning, Dick has a lot of life left in him. Going to work kept my uncle alive much longer than the doctors had predicted. Your grandfather is comparatively healthy. His diabetes is under control. You need to find something for Dick to do or he’ll…” and she quit talking.

  “He’ll curl up and die,” I finished for her.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The rest of the day, I worried about Poppy. How would I tell him that his dream job had evaporated, poof? I marveled at the way my good intentions had gone wrong. Six months ago I’d impetuously sunk all my savings into this shop, in an effort to protect my grandfather’s gas station. It seemed like a simple, straightforward plan.

  But it had backfired.

  The old gas station had since been torn down. My grandfather had been deemed unemployable. I was now the proud owner of a fledgling business that required careful nurturing. Along the way, I’d insisted on paying him a token amount for a beach cottage on Jupiter Island, even though he’d offered it as a gift. I’d taken in two stray animals as pets. (Three if you counted Kookie, the cockatoo, but Skye had kinda-sorta adopted the bird.) I’m also responsible for five people on my payroll: MJ, Skye, Sid, Honora, and EveLynn.

  Actually I have seven dependents, if you count my staff, plus the cat and the dog. Eight if you include my son down in Miami at the university. (Since my ex can’t be trusted, there’s always the chance he’ll quit paying for Tommy’s education—as promised—and that I’ll have to pick up the slack.)

  How could I have made such a mess of things? What was wrong with me? And how could I fix everything? Make it all right?

  A crushing sensation in my chest left me breathless. The edges of my vision darkened as stars danced in front of my eyes. I gripped the cash station counter hard and forced myself to calm down.

  I knew the symptoms of a panic attack.

  I’d had them before.

  My therapist back in St. Louis would have scolded me for “awful-izing.” According to Dr. Prengo, “awful-izing” happens when negativity overrules good sense. When you “awful-ize,” you conjure up the worst possible outcome as the result of a seriously skewed—and flawed—perspective.

  “Most of our worries will never come to pass,” said Dr. Prengo, as she adjusted her designer glasses. “When we awful-ize, we quit living in the moment. Seriously, Cara, have you noticed that you’re only hurting yourself by thinking such extreme thoughts? It’s an indulgence, and an unhealthy one at that. Remember the chicken who ran around screaming that the sky was falling? You’ve adopted her as a role model.”

  With Dr. Prengo’s voice echoing in my brain, I gave myself a good mental face-slap. I was healthy, so were my son and grandfather. Everything would work out. All I could do was my best. “They can’t kill me and they can’t eat me,” I said, under my breath, reprising a funny little motto that Dr. Prengo had shared.

  I plastered a fake smile on my face and waited on customers as they walked in. Putting my heart into my spiel, I cheerfully explained our philosophy: “Everything and everyone deserves a second chance.” I tried to sound upbeat as I interacted with employees.

  Mainly I succeeded.

  A little after five, after flipping the sign to CLOSED, I changed into my new Lilly Pulitzer dress. My spirits brightened right away. The dress fit as though Lilly had sewn it just for me. The colors brought out my eyes. The pink heightened the slight tan I’d gained from my beach walks. Finishing my toilette, I sprayed on perfume and freshened my makeup. I was halfway down the stairs when MJ beckoned to me.

  “Hey, that looks terrific on you. The news is on. I think you’ll want to come and listen.” With a twist of the wrist, she cranked the volume up on the tiny TV sitting on her desk in the back room.

  A solemn faced reporter stood in front of the sign designating the Hobe Sound Beach Park and said, “Earlier this morning, a half dozen people washed up on the shores of Jupiter Island. One woman was discovered by a local resident. A second victim was found dead at Blowing Rocks Reserve. Authorities aren’t saying w
hether the two illegals came ashore together or not, but locals are being cautioned to keep an eye out for more sightings. This is the third landing of undocumented immigrants since the beginning of the year.”

  The camera switched to a horse-faced woman seated behind a desk and saying, “Human trafficking is a $32-billion industry. The tightening of security at our land borders has encouraged more illegals to come by water. As evidenced by today’s tragedies, their choice often has deadly results.”

  We stood there, stunned for a moment as the numbers sank in. Thirty-two billion dollars? Wow.

  As MJ turned down the volume, I glanced at my phone. It had been vibrating in my pocket. “Lou wants me to know that the woman I found is in critical condition. She’s not out of the woods, but at least she’s alive.”

  “She might have brain damage.” Honora didn’t look up from her work. “Especially if she was without oxygen for long.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “That’s been nagging at me all day. The ATV guy and I even discussed that as a possible outcome when we administered CPR. The alternative was to do nothing and let her die before our eyes.”

  “Not much of a choice.” Honora was using a needleless syringe to apply a thin line of glue to a piece of furniture.

  “I’ll always wonder if we did the right thing. That is, unless I hear that she’s made a full recovery,” I said.

  Honora finished with her piece and put it to one side. Only now would she look our way. “Cara, that dress!”

  “Like it? Danielle brought it in for me today.” Sticking my hands in my pockets, I unfurled the skirt and did a quick twirl. I felt very pretty in my new frock.

  But the look on Honora’s face was not admiring. She stared at me with a slack jaw and said, “Why are you wearing Binky’s dress?”

  CHAPTER 15

  “What do you mean? Who or what is a Binky?” I asked.

  “Binky,” repeated Honora. “That’s her dress.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

  MJ’s eyes went from me, to Honora, and then to me again. “Binky? You mean Mrs. Rutherford? The one who lives on Jupiter Island on that huge estate? That dress was hers?”

  “I’m almost positive.” Honora came over and examined my hem. “That’s blind hemstitching, and it was done by hand. This has to be Binky’s. I watched her hem this myself. This couldn’t belong to anyone else. But how? Why? Binky would never let this dress go.”

  Her tone implied that I’d stolen the frock—and that irked me. “I bought this from Danielle who owns the consignment store.”

  Honora pored over the dress. Reaching out, she crushed a corner of the skirt in her palm. Upon release, she studied the wrinkled mass. “Same hand.”

  “Hand?”

  “A tailor’s term for the weight of the fabric.” Honora was talking to herself rather than to me.

  “Who or what is a Binky Rutherford?” I repeated my question to MJ.

  “She’s a contemporary of your grandfather. Very much a part of the Palm Beach social scene. Used to read about her all the time in the Palm Beach Post.” MJ studied me. More correctly, she studied Honora while she studied my dress. MJ continued, “Binky’s folks were early residents on the island. Their land never left the family.”

  “Is Binky dead? No one told me that she was.” Honora sounded as if she might faint.

  “She isn’t. At last she wasn’t this morning. According to Danielle, the owner pulled the dress out of her closet earlier today.”

  “And Danielle brought it directly to you?”

  “As far as I know. Danielle said that the minute she saw this dress, she decided it was perfect for me so she brought it right over. In fact, the drycleaner’s bag was still intact. I left it upstairs.”

  Honora rubbed her eyes. “Why would Binky let that dress go?”

  My good mood had been nibbled away. “Why would anyone on Jupiter Island give up anything? Because they have too much stuff and not enough room? Same reason the rest of us pare down.”

  “Darling girl, that’s not what I’m saying. Let me explain. This is a Lilly Pulitzer like none other.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “So I heard. From Danielle.”

  “Yes,” Honora said, “I’m sure she gave you the dress’s provenance in a nutshell, but did she tell you it’s a prototype? Lilly and Binky were best friends. Devoted to each other. So much so, that when Lilly decided to expand, to make clothes for other people, Binky was her first model.”

  “I went to an exhibit at the Museum of Lifestyle and Fashion History down in the Boynton Beach Mall,” said MJ. “The placards explained that Lilly commissioned her fabrics. She directed what the artists painted, didn’t she? Because she couldn’t find exactly what she wanted off the racks. Her first patterns were designed to cover up splashes of orange juice. The family sold juice to tourists, and Lilly was in charge of the juice stand. But she was a bit of a klutz. Always staining her clothes. Hated how aprons looked.”

  “Exactly,” said Honora. “Lilly came up with the brilliant idea that vibrant prints would hide the stains. She knew that an A-line form would be flattering to her figure. Without a waistband, the dresses would be cooler and perfect for our hot climate. First she ran up a few dresses for herself. Binky thought they were adorable and volunteered to give Lilly’s early pieces a test run. She helped to popularize Lilly’s apparel.”

  “Including this dress,” I said.

  “That’s how Lilly’s work caught on.” Honora nodded. “The two friends discussed each piece, judging what looked good and what didn’t. This style in particular was a huge hit. However, Lilly only had one dress made from this particular fabric. The artist wasn’t interested in working on textiles. She created just enough of this to make up one shift, and it went to Binky. Later Lilly commissioned copies in a similar pattern, but the colors were a little different, and the print slightly altered.”

  “So Binky’s had this dress since, what? Nineteen sixty-something? What’s the big deal? She was probably paring down. Doing spring cleaning.”

  Honora took off the magnifying headband she usually wore when she worked and picked up her regular glasses. Wiping them carefully on the hem of her blouse, she studied the dress and me for what seemed like a long time.

  “Well, no. That can’t be what happened. You see, Binky had other plans for this dress.”

  “The museum in Boynton Beach Mall. I bet she was going to give it away,” said MJ.

  “No,” said Honora. “Absolutely not. Don’t get me wrong, Binky has given away scads and scads of clothing to charity shops. No one could be more generous. That’s not the point.”

  She inched around me, taking in the dress more slowly. Her eyes were bright with concentration. “Binky always swore that this was the dress she’d be buried in.”

  “Gross,” I said. “Maybe there was a misunderstanding. Danielle is a saleswoman, and she loves a good deal. Maybe Binky didn’t mean to hand over this particular dress. I’ll put this aside until we find out.”

  I hated what I was about to do, because the dress was particularly becoming. It had been a long day, and it had started off with a sad occurrence. Now I felt unreasonably put out and defeated. “I’ll go upstairs and change out of this while you call Binky.”

  “I shall phone her later tonight. She’s usually puttering around in her garden until six. Cara? You are doing the right thing,” Honora said.

  Then why didn’t I feel good about it?

  CHAPTER 16

  When he arrived to pick me up, Jason brought a large bouquet of red roses. They seemed a bit overtly romantic, but I certainly didn’t complain. Instead, I stuck my nose into the cool petals and inhaled deeply.

  “Gorgeous.”

  “So are you,” he responded.

  I didn’t feel as feminine in my dark-wash jeans and sheer boho blouse, but at least I knew these clothes were mine. We actually matched better than if I’d worn my Lilly because Jas
on was wearing a tight pair of jeans and a Guy Harvey tee shirt.

  “Cara needs to let her hair down,” said MJ, after she volunteered to trim the stems on the roses and put them in a vase.

  “Why?” asked Jason.

  I explained about finding the undocumented immigrant.

  “You found the live one, I hope. Not the woman who turned up dead.”

  “No. Not the dead one.”

  MJ shooed us out the door with a little brushing motion of her fingertips. “Don’t worry about your pets, Cara. I’ll make sure they’re fed and watered. You two kids go and have a good time.”

  Easy for her to say. She’s been married six times and dated almost every man on the Treasure Coast. Somehow, she manages to glide from man to man without any involvement. Me? I’m a “marry in haste and repent for the rest of your life” type of girl. I’d been all of eighteen when I eloped to Chicago with Dominic Petrocelli. Eight months and a big baby bump later, I walked in on Dom while he was ramming his tongue down the throat of a waitress in the back of my parents’ restaurant. When she laughed at the expression on my face, and he joined in, I grabbed a cast-iron skillet and hit him. Dom went down and hit his head, hard. Fortunately, he regained consciousness. Unfortunately, he decided to press charges against me for attempted murder. Just for laughs, he also did his best to ruin my parents’ business.

  Suffice it to say, I’ve been a wee bit skittish around men ever since. Jason was hoping to have an exclusive relationship. But I didn’t have any experience with intimacy except for my brief marriage—and to call me “scared” was a vast understatement.

  I was petrified.

  My marriage not only cost me my self-esteem, but the resultant legal fees and impact on my parents’ business cost me my freedom. Guilt compelled me to keep working at the restaurant and doing exactly what my parents asked of me. To the outside world, it looked like I had tremendous freedom, but in actuality I had none. Year after year, my only goal was to be a good daughter, to do anything and everything asked of me. How else could I make things right? How else could I atone for mucking up my parents’ lives?