Second Chance (Cold Springs Series Book 1) (2 page)

Everything but Aunt Jean.

Guilt hit Sam with the force of a tractor trailer.  She didn’t want to be the one to throw out Aunt Jean’s things.  Maybe Mother would help her.  Aunt Jean was after all, her sister.  No.  Nothing good would come of that.  If Mother had wanted to help clear away Aunt Jean’s personal affects, she would have offered to do so six months ago. 

Mother and Aunt Jean may have been sisters, but the two were as different as night and day, and mixed as well as oil and water. Mother still held animosity for her deceased sister, likely always would.  Exactly why, Sam really didn’t know.  Sam had never pried, had just supposed it was simple sibling rivalry as she felt between herself and her own sister, Theresa.

Sam would have to clean out the apartment herself.  Aunt Jean had left the place to her, so the responsibility fell on Sam, no one else.

And she would bring the diner back to life.   There was no other choice.

~ * ~

Ian Woods split a chunk of Scotch pine in half with one blow of the ax.  He stepped back, leaned the splitting maul against the stump and wiped the sweat from his brow.  A cool breeze tugged at the tail of his flannel shirt as he finished the last of his water.  It would certainly be easier to get through the twenty cord of wood with a splitter, but he didn’t mind the hard work.  Every scream of his biceps cried freedom, and it tasted too good to take for granted. 

He watched as a cloud of red-winged blackbirds flew overhead already grouped and ready to head south.  Dying for a smoke, but trying to quit, he breathed as deeply as his lungs would allow, held it until it felt as if his chest would burst, and slowly exhaled.  He had a feeling winter would be early this year.  Not just talk of it on weather reports.  He could feel it.  Already the air was filled with the smell of rotting leaves—some had turned and already fallen—and the air had a coldness like the first frost would be just days away.   He was glad to get a jump on splitting Burt’s firewood.  He would need it soon. 

Beauty, perfection, peace.  Being able to go outside whenever he wanted was still foreign, and he wondered if he’d ever get used to it, ever take it for granted again.

He was probably nuts to come back to the town where everything happened and everyone knew about it and gossiped about him, but Cold Springs and its landscape were in his bones. He’d always planned to make a life here, create a contracting business and raise a family here. Despite his grave doubts, he still held that dream, and he wanted to see if he could do it.

An image of Sam Stone appeared in his head.  First the gangly, rail-thin girl with the round wire-rimmed glasses, always with her nose in a book then the high school girl who made the glasses seem dangerously sexy.  The whole librarian thing suited her.  He wondered if she was still pulling that off.  He felt like an idiot after calling her this morning.  There had been no hint of recognition in her voice. Just total surprise, maybe even a little annoyance. Of course, he was nothing more than a stranger to her.  

Burt said she’d moved downstate to the city and was a big hotshot publisher or something.  No doubt too good for the likes of this town. 

He’d been hoping that she’d remember him and take him up on his offer to maintain the diner for her, maybe arrange some regular paying gig where she’d set up a maintenance contract with him to take care of the place, maintain the boiler and air conditioning system.  If he could get a few opportunities like that, he’d be set for steady income to start his business. 

Did Sam know about his past?  All she had to do was get a background check on him so there was no use lying if she asked him.

He didn’t have much time to get his business to turning over a profit, as his parole officer had pointed out at his last meeting.  If he didn’t start proving that he could support himself financially, he’d have to find a regular paying job, and who the hell would hire an ex-con?

~ * ~

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?”