A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET

by Lewis, Laurie

  Avery winced, realizing the effect her adoring new husband’s effusive praise wrought on her work. She struggled to find her voice again, and instead of being challenged and inspired by her newfound spiritual light, she became satisfied, happily agreeing with Paul’s well-intentioned suggestion to part company with Axel Hunter’s character-probing style, opting for the more commercial action-and-mystery novel instead.

  Avery argued with herself all the way back to the house and straight to the computer. After opening the new manuscript, she read a few paragraphs, then she scrolled down twenty or so pages to another spot and read what was written there. After a few such efforts she closed the file and allowed her head to drop into her hands. It was well-written, creative, and marketable nonsense. Was that all she was capable of anymore? She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and sighed, then headed for the deck to stare out at the surf. Reflecting on her life since the days of Axel’s influence, she realized she’d seen much, lived much, loved deeply, and lost greatly. Life experience should have made her a more insightful author.

  Disillusioned and unsettled, she took a shower and redressed, all the while hearing her grandfather’s voice in her head.

  “Don’t just tell a story, Avery Xandra. Take me somewhere. Teach me something.”

  The challenge had always seemed too daunting. “What could I possibly teach you, Grandfather?”

  She still remembered his soft, encouraging rebuke, delivered with a cock of his head and a rapid click of his tongue. “Has anyone else dreamed your dreams? Asked your questions? Seen inside your heart? Show me those things—teach me about those things.”

  Avery thought again about her life. She had seen, lived, loved, and lost much. What have I learned from those things? After minutes of quiet reflection, random sparks of inspiration started igniting in every corner of her mind, and she tried to gather them to sort them into some order. Wes was still asleep when she returned to the computer. After a few moments she knew what she wanted—no, needed—to say. She opened a new Word document and began, “Chapter One . . .”

  It was nearly ten o’clock and two hours later when Wes padded down the stairs and found his mother typing furiously. “Man alive!” he teased. “So it’s you!”

  “What?” Avery replied with a wide smile.

  “I thought a flock of deranged woodpeckers was going postal in the kitchen!”

  Avery chuckled as she typed. “Get outta here.”

  “Man, you must be on some streak. What page are you on now?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Thirteen? Last night you were like on chapter seven or something.”

  “I’ve decided to set that aside. Something else hit me this morning.”

  “I’ll say.” Wes grabbed a carton of orange juice, opened it, and began chugging it down.

  “Wes . . . ,” Avery chided.

  “I’m saving the environment. One less glass to wash! Don’t worry. I’m going to finish this carton off. Then I want to take your car back to the dealership and get the AC fixed. You’ll die if you don’t have air conditioning down here.”

  “Thanks, honey. I think the contract’s in the glove box. Just make a right at the end of the drive and go about a mile. You can’t miss the dealership. Ask for Mark, the guy I told you about last night. He’s great, Wes. Maybe you could invite him out to lunch.”

  Wes gave her a sideways look. “Are you setting up a play date for me, Mother?”

  “It was just a suggestion, pal.”

  “I’ve only got a few days before I’m expected in Orlando. All I want is to be a slug till then—get some sun, watch a few old movies with you, and eat some of your home cooking.”

  Avery clutched her hands to her chest and fluttered her eyes. “I’m soooo flattered, but what if I want to be a slug too—then what?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get the movies. You get the takeout.”

  “Ha!” she laughed, then pointed to the counter. “No, I’m already thawing out a roast.”

  A childlike smile crossed Wes’s face. “With mashed potatoes and glazed carrots?”

  “All the trimmings,” Avery responded with pleasure.

  “That’s my mom! I’ll be back later with a movie.” He picked up the car keys, stopped, and turned. “Need me to pick up anything?”

  “How about a date? There are some cute girls in the Bradenton congregation.”

  “Mother . . .” Wes scolded as he exited the house.

  A sandy-haired man in his mid-twenties met Wes when he pulled up in front of Island Motors. The man extended his hand and offered Wes an apologetic smile.

  “You must be Wes. I’m Mark Donovan. So sorry about the AC. Your mother just called. You left the lease agreement at the house, but I’ll just pull my copy to get the information I need.”

  “Thanks,” Wes replied as he took the man’s offered hand. Nice handshake, he mused. After two years as a missionary, and a few more as a soldier, Wes had developed the ability to size up a person by his eye contact and handshake. He wasn’t always on target with first impressions, but, more often than not, he found he could trust his instincts.

  “Just pull her around to the back. If you don’t mind waiting in the lounge for a minute, I’ll take you home myself.”

  “Thanks.” Wes parked the car and easily found the lounge. He settled in with a magazine and watched from afar as Mark dealt with customers’ concerns. No matter how frazzled the client, Mark’s face reflected patience and kindness, but something else was there as well. Wes had seen that look before, on his mission, in the eyes of lonely people, and in Afghanistan, in the hopeless faces of war-torn people. Such sadness spoke of pain and loss. People with those eyes were often in need of peace and comfort. Wes wondered if such was the case with Mark.

  A beautiful young woman with large, dark eyes and dark hair entered the lobby. She cocked her head to the side and wiggled her fingers in hello at Mark. Lucky guy, thought Wes until he saw the sadness increase in Mark’s brown eyes. He noted the absence of a ring on her hand and wondered if this was the estranged wife his mother had told him about.

  Wes studied Mark’s reaction to the woman. He smiled back at her and held up one finger, gesturing for the woman to give him a minute to finish up. She nodded her understanding and strolled over to the lounge, taking the empty seat one chair over from Wes.

  “Busy place,” Wes offered.

  “Hmm? Uh-huh,” the young woman replied as she leafed through a magazine.

  “Here on vacation?”

  “Me? No. I’m a local, born and bred right here on the island. You?”

  “No. Just visiting my mom before I report for work in Orlando. She’s here on vacation.” Wes noticed how the woman’s bio fit the profile his mother had mentioned, and he nodded in Mark’s direction. “The manager here seems to be as good to the tourists as he is to the locals.”

  “Mark? Yeah, he’s a peach. He’s like my brother.”

  Wes leaned in and engaged the woman with increased interest. “So Mark is like your brother. That’s great. Really. I mean that you’re so close.” The stumble continued. “To each other, that is.”

  “Yes.” She shook her head at Wes and giggled. “Is this your first time to Anna Maria?”

  “Well, my first time in a long time. My folks rented a place down here in the summers when I was a kid going to tennis camp at IMG.”

  “Really? My sister and I used to go to soccer camp there every summer. What block did you attend?”

  “The second June block, before it got too blazing hot.”

  The woman’s eyes grew larger. “That’s when we were booked too—right after school let out! Small world. We probably passed each other in the cafeteria.”

  Wes shifted in his seat and smiled. “Oh, I doubt it. I think I’d have remembered a face as pretty as yours.”

  The young woman stared at him as a sarcastic snort escaped her. She shook her head and shifted her eyes to the magazine, absently flipping pages while respondi
ng, “Has a line like that ever actually worked for you?”

  “Too friendly?” Wes asked with a humiliated grin.

  “Tourist,” she spat as she rose and headed back to the counter, where Mark was free. She looked over her shoulder and tossed a defensive line back to Wes, “I wore glasses and a full rack of braces back then. Still think you would have given me the time of day?”

  Wes felt the burning sting of her rebuke. He slid down his chair and buried his face in the magazine as he contemplated declining Mark’s offer of a ride in favor of slithering home. As he waited for an opening to pass the news on to Mark, he overheard the guy coming to his defense.

  “Emilia,” Mark said as he moved in front of the counter to give her a hug. He leaned close and gave her a soft rebuke. “That was a little harsh. He seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Emilia shot back.

  “Ouch.” Mark raised one disappointed eyebrow at the woman. “Bad day?”

  “The worst,” she whined, dropping her head against his chest. “I had a meeting with the PR firm I applied to. I thought my spot was assured, but they’re saying they had some stupid communications gaffe. They committed the same position to two people, so now they have to choose.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair this late in the game.”

  “They said they’ll hire both of us for the summer, but one will get to work on actual projects and the other one will end up pushing papers and being a glorified secretary. Did I tell you that the project is to arrange a celebrity cookbook?” She gasped dramatically. “Today they challenged me and my rival to find an extra celebrity contributor by this Friday. The project post will go to whoever lines up the most prestigious celebrity. How am I going to find a celebrity at all, let alone by Friday? That’s why I applied for this job—to meet celebrities!”

  Wes heard a potential opening, and he listened further.

  “There are no celebrities here, Mil.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” Mark barely reacted to her dry sarcasm and Emilia became contrite. “I’m sorry. I just stopped by on my way to my manicure appointment.”

  “I thought manicures were luxuries you had to cut from your summer budget.”

  She glanced at her chipped acrylics. “They are, but”—she jiggled her shoulder bag—“I made ten beaded necklaces for the boutique to pay for it. That brings me to the reason I stopped by, though. Are you still going to come by and help Gina and me paint?”

  Mark grimaced. “I did buy the paint.” He fished the receipt from his shirt pocket. “But I’ll only work when Gina’s not there. I’m sure she’ll prefer that arrangement also. Just talk to her and call me when you know she’ll be out.”

  Disappointment showed on Emilia’s face. “I thought—I mean I had hoped . . .”

  Mark drew her close. “It’s time for me to move on, Millie. Just let me know when to come by, okay?”

  She nodded, and, as she turned to leave, Wes noticed tears in her eyes. He watched Mark follow her to her car and saw how his shoulders sagged as he turned to the board where dozens of sets of keys were hung.

  “Ready?” Mark called to Wes as he shook a ring with a lone key on it.

  “Sure.” Wes stood and followed in silence as they headed for a green Mustang.

  “Sorry about Millie. She’s usually really sweet.” Mark’s voice was soft and sad.

  “I got what I deserved. One day at the beach, and I start acting like Johnny Depp.”

  Mark laughed sympathetically. “Don’t. Please don’t. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Hey, how about letting me buy you lunch?”

  Mark looked back at the lobby filled with clients and salespeople. “Hmmm . . . I don’t . . . well . . . all right,” he agreed with a slight smile. “I could use a break.”

  “You pick the place. Show me some local color.”

  “Local color, huh?” Mark rolled his lips and then said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  The traffic on Gulf Drive was terrible at midday so the three-mile drive took fifteen minutes, but as they pulled into the Café on the Beach, Wes approved immediately and became wistful. “I remember this place. My dad brought me here for breakfast once. We walked all the way down the shore, and then we stopped here and ate before turning around and heading back.”

  “Nice memory.” Mark turned off the ignition.

  “Yeah, it was. He died last year. I miss him.”

  Mark suddenly reached for the ignition. “We can go somewhere else.”

  “No . . . no. I want to stay.” He climbed out of the car and Mark followed suit. They took a table on the porch overlooking the breaking surf and ordered two burgers and onion rings while they chatted about nothing in particular.

  “Are you doing all right?” Mark asked Wes.

  Wes looked at him as an onion ring dangled between his fingers. He considered the question for several seconds before he answered. “Yeah, I am. But I keep expecting my dad to walk in here with his lime green Bermuda shorts and that goofy hat of his.” He blew out a rush of air. “It’s good to remember him like that, all silly and strong. He was sick for a long time before he died.” He dropped the onion ring on his plate, no longer hungry for it. “Does your dad own a few embarrassing outfits too, or is that just a trend the tourists ascribe to?”

  Mark shook his head and smiled. “Nah. My father passed away my senior year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mark shrugged and stated matter-of-factly, “No need to be. I got a little shortchanged in the parent department, but I’ve dealt with it. Necessity helped me get past feeling sorry for myself a long time ago.”

  Wes questioned whether or not to say the next thing on his mind, then went for it. “My mom told me about your separation. I assume Millie’s your sister-in-law.”

  “At least for a few more weeks.”

  “That’s too bad. I can see how close you two are.”

  He bobbed his head and smiled as if remembering good times together. “She’s a pistol, though. Spoiled, too, just like her sister, but I knew that going in, and I still couldn’t help myself from falling in love with Gina. I pity the next guy though, or the guy who falls for Emilia.”

  Wes ran his hand through his hair and smiled. “Yeah? Well, it would seem she’s worth the trouble. Like you said, you knew your wife’s faults and you still fell in love with her, right?”

  Mark cocked his head to the side and became pensive. “Right.”

  Wes mixed a packet of mayo into his ketchup.

  “What are you doing?” asked Mark.

  “Doing my best to make Fry Sauce. Never had it, eh? It’s a Utah thing. Try it.” Wes dragged an onion ring through the mixture. “So it’s her house my mom is renting?”

  “Yep.” Mark tasted the sauce and gave it a thumbs up. “And she and Gina weren’t too happy about the arrangement. I haven’t seen Emilia that upset about anything since she and her boyfriend broke up.”

  “I take it she’s the one who got hurt.”

  “Real bad. Three years ago. Some character moved down here and started a little jewelry shop. He hired Emilia, and she fell head over heels in love with him. We could see he was completely wrong for her, but she nearly turned herself inside out to be what he wanted her to be. She invested all her money in the business, and when it folded, he packed up and left without so much as a forwarding address for Emilia. He stole her money and her heart. She could barely get out of bed for weeks. She hid her heartbreak from her father—told him she had mono or something. Gina and I helped her through it.” Mark’s phone vibrated, and he checked the screen quickly.

  Wes remembered the conversation he’d overheard at the dealership. “Getting this internship is really important to her, isn’t it?”

  Mark sighed as he leaned forward and reached for his drink. “It is, but I wish it weren’t. She was once a promising artist—open, sensitive. Getting jilted by that jerk changed her. She switched her major to advertising so she could still use her a
rt credits, but all of a sudden, her focus shifted from making beauty to making money. After that, power and prestige became important to her.” Mark leaned back, closed his eyes, and shook his head as he laughed softly. “Why didn’t I see this before?” he muttered to himself.

  Wes was confused by the utterance. “What? See what before?”

  Mark blushed and became somber. “I apologize. I barely know you and here I am sharing everyone’s dirty laundry with you.”

  Wes waved the apology off as he signaled for the waitress to bring the check. “Look at me. I did the same thing with you, telling you the stuff about my dad. I guess we both have a lot on our minds. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you barely know.”

  Mark nodded. “You and your mom are good people, Wes. I think I’m the one who needed this little conversation today.”

  Wes read the ticket and tossed some bills onto the table. “Sometimes the Lord brings people into your life when you need them.”

  Mark stared curiously at Wes as the two men rose from their seats. “Your mom told me about your time in Peru. You still sound like I’d expect a missionary to sound.”

  “You think so, huh?” The comment pleased him. After four years in the marines and since his father’s death, he had become more reserved about sharing his faith. “Thanks.”

  The two men headed around the restaurant and back to the car. Wes leaned against the car’s roof as Mark reached for his door handle. “I’m sure my mom would help Emilia out.”

  It took a moment for Mark to understand. “You think she’d agree to be in the cookbook?”

  Wes shrugged. “She might not be the biggest star in the country, but her books have been on best-seller lists. Mention it to Emilia and see what she thinks.”

  Mark thought for a moment and smiled wryly. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe you should tell her yourself. That message in the restaurant? It was from Emilia. The girls are going to be home tonight. Wanna help me paint?”