Second Chances (Nugget Romance 3) (2 page)

He’d used much of it to buy his property, twenty acres of forest and rolling hills, in a foreclosure sale. He’d stumbled upon it and the old railroad town by accident while delivering his brother-in-law’s custom furniture to a ski resort not far away, and fell in love. The former owner, a Bay Area businessman, had planned to build his dream vacation home on the plot. But when the economy went south, he’d lost his job and couldn’t afford to make the payments. A pad had already been cleared and architectural plans for a rambling rancher came with the property.

But Colin thought the landscape and logging history of the area called for something more dramatic and appropriate for the rugged winters. And the truth was he needed a house with tall ceilings and wide-open spaces—nothing that would ever make him feel hemmed in again.

So he’d ordered one of those chalet-style log-cabin kits and had modified it to include covered porches, stone fireplaces, and a curved staircase. It took more than two years to build, his hope being that by the time he finished, the place would bear no resemblance to the original mail-order, cookie-cutter plan.

His stepsister Fiona worried that he was drawn to the remote area—four hours from San Francisco—so he could live like a hermit.

The fact that Nugget was an excellent place to hide from society definitely had its advantages for the town, Colin admitted. But that wasn’t the reason he’d settled here.

It was the feeling he got when he stepped outside and the smell of sweet pine sap stung his nose. It was the way the snow-capped mountains guarded the town like solemn sentries and how the distant wail of a train whistle lulled him to sleep at night.

But mostly it was the only place where he felt truly free. With its gold rush history, Nugget held the promise of a second chance.

And God knew he needed one.

A
t six in the morning Harlee’s internal alarm clock went off. She started to roll out of bed to hit the gym and suddenly realized:
This is not my Marina District apartment. And that’s not my view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

And then it hit her in the gut, like a wallop from a 250-pound linebacker. She’d been fired from her dream job, stripped of her building-access pass, marched out of the newsroom like a common criminal, and forced to live in her parents’ cabin in the woods.

Away from her friends, away from Nordstrom, away from everything she loved.

There had been twelve of them laid off in total. HR had called it a “work force reduction.”

As they’d been escorted out the door, the other newspaper reporters had stood at their desks, stomping their feet in a rhythmic tattoo of solidarity.

Unfortunately, they’d probably be canned in the next round of downsizing. The
San Francisco Call
, like most papers across the United States, was losing money faster than the presses churned out pages. Apparently only the terminally old cared about real news. The rest watched TMZ.

Six years earlier, straight out of SF State, she’d snagged a coveted internship at the paper. The other candidates had pedigrees from the country’s top J-schools and impressive freelance clips from big magazines and newspapers. She’d had only a few articles printed in the
Golden Gate Xpress
, her student newspaper. So instead of trying to dazzle the
Call
’s upper management with her portfolio, she’d memorized the bios of every senior editor on staff and spent her entire interview interviewing them. Naturally she’d landed the job.

After a year of working night cops, covering homicides, fires, and protests, she began lobbying for a permanent position.

“Look, kid, you can’t write worth a shit,” the managing editor, Jerry Strean, told her after she’d cornered him by the coffee machine. “You get lost on your way to press conferences, and when I asked you to do that Libya piece you didn’t have the first goddamn clue who Moammar Gadhafi was. Give me one good reason I should hire you.”

“Because I can squeeze information out of a rutabaga.” She raised her chin as if daring him to contradict her. Harlee knew her shortcomings, but her one true gift was getting people to talk. For some reason, sources thought of her as priest, therapist, and the sympathetic girl next-door, all rolled into one, and spilled their deepest and darkest secrets. And when that didn’t work, she could find the key to the kingdom by searching Internet databases that most reporters didn’t even know existed.

“Didn’t I get the interview with Duckett after the legislative aide he was doing went missing?” Most editors had attention spans of two-year-olds, so she had to boil her twelve months’ worth of scoops into pithy sound bites. “Wasn’t I the only one able to track down the best friend of the kid who got mauled to death at the zoo by Tabatha the tiger? Oh, and who got the exclu with Tami Moore when her boat capsized and she survived six days on the open sea? Uh . . . That would be me.”

Jerry rolled his eyes. “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Roberts, you’ve got spunk’?” He handed her his empty coffee mug. “Make a fresh pot, would ya?”

As she watched him stroll back into his glass office, she stood there, bewildered. Then she carefully measured out enough Yuban for twelve strong cups.

She waited a full forty-eight hours before approaching him again. This time she’d carefully cataloged a list of her accomplishments at the paper, barged into his office, and shoved the three pages of typewritten notes under his nose.

“Take your time looking it over,” she told him. “And feel free to ask around the newsroom about how I’m doing.”

She turned to leave, when Jerry called out, “Hey, Roberts, you misspelled Berkeley. Three E’s.”

Harlee could hear him laughing halfway down the hall. Four days later, after she’d unearthed a scandal at the police department—feral cats had taken over the storage room, peeing on crucial evidence—Jerry called her into his office. He told her to take a seat and then made her wait ten minutes while he creased the bill of his Giants cap until he got the perfect fold.

“You do have a knack for reporting, I’ll give you that.” He sailed the hat Frisbee-style across the room so that it landed smack dab on a hook, then leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “So this is what I’m gonna do. I’m giving you six months to prove you can bring up the quality of your writing. If you can do that, I’ll make you a full-fledged reporter. In the meantime, learn how to use the goddamn spell check.”

She ran around the desk and threw her arms around him. “You won’t regret this, Jerry. I swear.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here. And, Roberts, you screw this up, you’re out on your ass.”

From then on, any time a big story broke, Jerry would come out of his office, point at Harlee, and yell, “Legs, you’re on it.”

The first time it happened, Harlee turned to her editor, appalled. “Uh . . . Hello? It’s the new millennium. He can’t talk to me like that.”

Her editor, a youngish guy with a master’s degree in journalism from Columbia, who had the smarts to know calling a female subordinate “Legs” held all kinds of legal implications—none of them good—stifled a laugh.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Harlee. All Jerry means is he wants you to go out and do the legwork so I can rewrite your copy into some semblance of English.”

“Oh . . . okay. Then we’re all good.”

After her six-month probation period was up, Jerry gave her the job. On her last day of work, as the two doofus security guards paraded her past his office, Jerry popped out, gave her an awkward hug, and whispered in her ear, “You’ll do fine, Legs.”

Yesterday a peacock, today a feather duster
, she reflected as she considered getting out of bed. Losing a career she’d loved, moving into a log cabin miles away from civilization, and leaving her friends behind, it was overwhelming. At least her parents had been supportive, lending her the cabin for as long as she needed to regroup and get her business off the ground.

It was only temporary, she kept telling herself. Just a free place to stay while she got DataDate up to speed. She’d started the small business while she was still at the
Call
, to bring in extra money to help pay credit card bills. Now she needed the income more than ever. She was broke—her checking account down to a thousand dollars. And cold, she mused as she stuck one foot outside the covers. She better order that firewood soon, or her minuscule severance package would go to paying heating bills.

She got out of bed and looked around the room, deciding she’d made the right choice by taking the master suite instead of her old bedroom. The cabin for the most part was pretty rustic, furnished with hand-me-down plaid couches and leather club chairs from her parents’ Piedmont house. But her mother hadn’t skimped in the master. A king-size sleigh bed, flanked by two nightstands, anchored the room. Mom had chosen Ralph Lauren bedding done in a hunting-toile pattern and a companion striped fabric for the window treatments. It was French Provençal meets mountain chic.

Her mother had always wanted to be a decorator, but had settled for owning a small bric-a-brac shop in a trendy part of Oakland not far from home. She sold everything from throw blankets to funky chandeliers. Harlee’s entire San Francisco apartment—a studio the size of a carport—had been furnished with items from her mother’s store. Before coming to Nugget, she’d packed up her belongings, stored the larger pieces in her parents’ garage, and broke her lease. Since her landlord could get twice the rent due to the city’s tech boom, there’d been no problem.

That’s how she wound up here.

Harlee stuck her feet into a pair of slippers and padded into the bathroom, got into the shower, and turned the faucet to hot. Instead, she got ice. That’s what the water felt like as it sluiced down her back. No matter how much she twisted the knob, the water stayed cold, making her suck in her breath and shudder. Before hypothermia set in, she turned off the faucet and stood there covered in soap suds, shampoo dripping into her eyes. Shivering, she slowly turned the water back on and ducked under the rain showerhead for as long as she could stand it. She did it over and over until she was convinced she’d been thoroughly rinsed. Each time, she gasped from the shock of the frigid temperature and let out a shriek.

She got out of the shower, wrapped herself in a thick terry cloth towel, and rubbed vigorously until she got feeling back in her arms and legs. Then she thought about who she’d kill first. Her brother for shutting off the propane or her dad for not reminding her to turn it back on.

She pulled on her clothes, including a turtleneck, cashmere sweater, and thermal socks. But Harlee could still see her breath, so she crawled back under the covers. Punching in the numbers of her parents’ house, she let the phone ring until the answering machine came on. Then she hung up and tried her brother Brad.

“Hey, how’s it going up there?” He sounded so goddamned chipper she wanted to reach through her cell phone and grab him by the throat.

“Just hunky-dory.” When she told him about her shower experience, he laughed so loud she promised to disown him. “How do I turn the gas back on and relight the pilot light?”

He walked her through the process, but no matter how many times she tried, the darned thing wouldn’t light.

“You’ll probably have to call the Nugget Propane Company,” Brad told her. “They’ll get it going for you.”

She hung up, called information for the propane company’s number, and dialed. When no one picked up, Harlee decided to hop in her car and drive there. When she arrived at the propane company there was a sign on the door: “Gone fishin’. Back on Nov. 12.” That was four days from now—too long to go without heat or a shower.

She banged her head against the door and considered getting in her Mini Cooper and driving down the mountain all the way back to San Francisco.
Harlee Roberts, you are no quitter
, she told herself, and headed to the Bun Boy for breakfast instead. Her stomach growled from not having had any dinner—she’d spent the time cleaning and unpacking. The downtown frosty, with its weathered picnic tables and drive-through window, had been a regular attraction when her family came to visit. And if those fried egg sandwiches were as good as she remembered, they’d be worth one last splurge.

From here on in she planned to conserve her money, using every dime she made from DataDate to pay expenses and her outstanding bills. But the small business might never generate enough money. So until she got another newspaper job she’d have to put her old lifestyle on hold. No eating at good restaurants. No shopping in nice stores.

 

While she waited for her food, Harlee took a good look around the square. Someone had fixed up the old Lumber Baron. Last time she’d seen it, the Victorian had been boarded up. Now, the stunning inn blew away all the other shops in the commercial district. Maybe it was her imagination, but the Ponderosa also looked like it had gotten a facelift. Downtown Nugget had never been what you would call chichi, but to her it had always had a certain je ne sais quoi. Perhaps because she’d had such good memories here as a kid.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a young woman staring at her. She obviously wanted to strike up a conversation. Harlee smiled, but kept her distance. It’s not that she was unfriendly; she just didn’t feel up to socializing. Not while she was still mourning her lost life. Ever since she’d gotten laid off, she’d hidden out, avoiding calls and emails.

“Would it be too personal to ask you where you get your hair done?”

“Uh . . . no . . . not at all,” Harlee said. “Daniel Salon in San Francisco.”

“It’s a really nice cut.” The woman stepped closer and started running her fingers through Harlee’s shoulder-length layers.

“They use a straightening treatment?” she asked Harlee.

“Why? Is it that obvious?” Harlee tried to back away, but the woman had a large hunk of Harlee’s hair in her hands.

For years she’d been a slave to styling products, flatirons, and more recently, Brazilian blowouts. Big brother Brad had gotten the good hair in their family, while Harlee’s looked like Howard Stern’s. She’d also been bestowed with the dreaded unibrow. In high school, her mother had finally taken her to a place where for two hours a woman shaped, waxed, and tweezed Harlee’s brows into perfect arches. Now she paid regularly to keep them that way.

“Only to a professional,” the woman replied.

The stylist was stuffed into a leopard-print dress, wore plastic earrings the size of hula hoops, and had penciled a beauty mark above her lip. And if Harlee wasn’t mistaken, that teased thing on top of her head was a hairpiece. Either she was channeling Dolly Parton or she was getting ready to audition for
What Not to Wear
.

“You’re a stylist?” Harlee asked dubiously.

“Yep. I just moved here from Sacramento. I’m taking over my father’s barbershop.” She pointed across the square at an old-timey red, white, and blue pole and a sign that read, “Owen’s.”

Harlee looked at the barbershop then back at the woman.
Note to self: Continue to go to San Francisco for haircuts.

“Well, congratulations. Nice meeting you.” She hoped that would end the conversation. Like pronto. The woman was odd and Harlee didn’t have the patience.

“Tell you the truth, it’s been a little slow,” Weird Dolly said, clearly unable to take a hint. “But I’m building a rep and hoping to attract clients from Sierraville and Quincy.”

“Good luck with that.” Thankfully, Harlee’s food order was up.

There was no indoor seating at the Bun Boy and even though it was a tad too cold to eat outside, she didn’t want to smell up her car with fried food. She walked over to one of the picnic tables and sat on a bench, hoping that the woman wouldn’t follow. No such luck. Dolly carried her own tray over and camped out on the seat next to Harlee.