Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection

by J. Kenner

  In early October, as Halloween approached, I was assigned an article on simple children's costumes for a citywide parenting publication. I went to my trusty bookstore on a Thursday night to peruse the shelves for costume ideas. I found myself drawn to my favorite lounge chair on the second floor.

  I'd lifted four promising titles off the shelf and was scanning the table of contents page in the third book, when I noticed somebody stealthily taking a seat a couple of chairs to my right. I didn't look up immediately. I just registered that the invading individual was male, turned a handful of pages, and scribbled several notes on "baby bumblebee" trick-or-treat attire.

  But I had that feeling--that inexplicable sensation that occurs whenever you first become aware that you're being watched. A weird The Sixth Sense kind of thing--minus the dead people. Reasonably sure I could identify the source of the gaze, I glanced over at the man who'd come in a few minutes before.

  In truth, I probably wouldn't have recognized him if it hadn't been for his loafers.

  He was watching me intently--this guy I'd once named Neil--only he wasn't quite like my memory's image. Seeing him in person for just the second time in my life, I realized I'd glossed over some significant details in my recollection: the dark blond chin stubble, the moderately protruding ears, the serious set to his jaw, and the astuteness in his light blue eyes (although they were as blue as Chris Hemsworth's). The eyelashes were unchanged, but a more accurate picture of the other features was starting to come back to me. Dressed in a dark sport coat this time, rather than a black leather jacket, with tan slacks instead of jeans and a fat briefcase touching the toe of his right loafer, he regarded me with a steady, unsmiling expression.

  Damn.

  I looked away, expecting him to turn his attention elsewhere now that I had.

  He didn't.

  I took several yoga-style cleansing breaths--despite the fact that I never did yoga--and counted slowly to five before looking back at him. He was still staring, with a gravity that led me to mark the nearest exits if a quick escape would be required.

  Crapola.

  He couldn't know about the story, could he? Or be angry because of it, right? It was fiction, after all. I mean, I didn't even know his real name!

  I was tempted to say something to him, but what? These fears had to be my overactive imagination working the late shift again.

  Maybe he was just absentmindedly staring in my direction.

  Maybe I looked like somebody he knew from Sunday school when he was ten.

  Maybe this was his idea of flirtation, you know, smoldering like one of those television network vampires. (They do that.)

  I'd nearly convinced myself of one of these scenarios--the Sunday school one--when I saw the corners of his lips curl slightly upward.

  At long last, he whispered, "So, you write for Midwest Fiction Forum, eh?" It was presented as a question, but I could tell from the undisguised sarcasm that he already knew the answer.

  Oh, shit, shit, shit!

  "Uh, w-well," I stuttered, "I've had a c-couple, um--why?"

  He didn't reply. He got up from his chair two seats away and moved right next to me as I shot glances around the room in panic. I put the kiddie costume books on the floor and gripped my pen, dagger style, just in case.

  Then he leaned in toward me. "I remember you," he whispered. My eyes widened while his crinkled at the corners. "You were the one here that day, weren't you? You lifted our conversation. Verbatim."

  Oh, no. A psycho guy ... who reads. Short story and poetry journals, no less. Just my luck.

  Then I thought, hey, if only I could escape the bookstore unscathed, this would make a wild story. Maybe even a novel. Consider the fun premise, the natural, built-in conflict. It had so much potential, but first I needed to slip away from the tall, hunky man with the dangerous glint in his very blue eyes.

  "Um, look," I began, using my most placating tone. "It's just fiction, you know? I didn't mean to offend you or, or, anyone--but, it's--well, people are always asking writers where we get our ideas, and you can tell them it's in the 'random stuff' we encounter in real life but, a lot of times, no one believes us. You two were in a public location, talking kind of loud, and, and ... I mean, the things you both were saying made an interesting place for a story to start. So--" I ran fresh out of babbling steam right about then, but I forced myself to meet his gaze and hold my ground.

  He snickered and sat back in his chair. I loosened my grip on the pen--a little.

  "I should've known you'd be some writer. You had that shrewd, information-gathering look about you." He raised his eyebrows at me, and his gaze raked me over very deliberately before returning to my face. I felt myself turn pink.

  "I must have reread the first conversation, especially your descriptions of us, and that sitcom-like elbow-bumping incident about fifteen times before I could believe it." He shook his head. "And you were hardly objective in your narrative. But, I guess," he said, wrinkling his nose, "it was a pretty bizarre night."

  "Why?" I asked, careful to show both respect and interest. I needed more information for the psycho-bookworm story.

  "Because my girlfriend and I broke up about ten minutes after you left."

  "What? Really? The blonde?" Excellent. Crisis and several plot points already in place. Now I just needed more character details.

  "Yeah. The blonde. Jessica, as you know her," he said, mocking me. "Her name's Kira, by the way, and she's the lawyer."

  "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 ha
d 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 1/2 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 canape 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 latte." 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 cafe. "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 bestselling 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(r) 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 t
ried 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.