Second Chance Rose
and other stories
Terry Odell
Copyright © 2014 by Terry Odell
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Dedication
To Mom and Dad and all those Sundays at the museums and the rose garden.
Contents
Dedication
Hurricane Breeze
Romancing the Geek
Relationships
Out of Sight
Second Chance Rose
♥ ♥ ♥
A Note From The Author
Acknowledgments
About The Author
More by Terry Odell
Hurricane Breeze
Carter Worthington the fourth is the kind of man whose schedule is laid out in fifteen minute increments, while Tiffany wouldn’t know what to do with a day planner if she owned one.
When a hurricane blows Tiffany Breeze into Carter's sheltered universe, he must decide if he's willing to leave the emotional safety of his orderly existence to experience the highs, knowing he'll also have to face the lows.
♥ ♥ ♥
Warm damp air blew through Carter’s living room from the backyard, carrying with it a clean, outdoorsy scent. A tree branch perched half inside his picture window dripped on his floor. Broken glass lay strewn over the Tabriz and Kerman carpets. So much for the realtor’s assurance that the deep overhang on the back of the house would be enough protection from a storm and he wouldn’t need hurricane shutters there. He should drag her back here and let her see what Hurricane Julia had done to the back of his living room. The room’s front windows, which faced the street, were intact behind their lowered shutters.
What if nature had played a trick on him, leaving his monetary possessions in exchange for the more important?
Skirting the broken glass, Carter Worthington IV padded barefoot across the house to his study. Glimmers of morning light filtered through the louvers of the shutters, giving the room an almost ghost-like quality. The books filling the shelves along two walls greeted him like old friends, and he immediately felt his insides settle. He crossed the Berber carpeted space, grateful his feet didn’t squish. No water in here. He pulled the garbage bag he’d cut open to use as a makeshift tarp from his antique oak desk. His research paperwork and manuscripts were stacked in plastic storage boxes on its surface, just as he’d left them last night. Still, his heart rate picked up as he opened the drawer where he’d placed his backup files. The flash drive sat there in its plastic bag. Of course it would. A hurricane didn’t come into your home and pick up selected items. And even if it had, there were three other backups tucked away throughout the house. And one, albeit not quite as current, in his safety deposit box.
He powered on his computer and checked the Weather Channel’s website for an update. In the early morning hours, impending Hurricane Julia had veered north, losing much of her strength in the process and was now little more than a limping tropical storm. Tornadoes had hopscotched over half the state, destroying mobile home parks and isolated neighborhoods.
How had he slept through it all? He recalled vague images of dreams filled with explosions and howling winds. His subconscious mind’s way of giving him a few hours of needed sleep, he supposed. That and the Tylenol P.M.
He went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, first removing another plastic-sealed flash drive from his coffee canister. The familiar whirring of the coffee grinder and the smell of freshly ground beans brought him one step closer to a normal day. In here, without the filtering of shutters, he could see the clouds, high and flat, like someone had taken a broad paintbrush to the sky, but hadn’t gone back to even out the brushstrokes. Bright sunlight sneaked through thin places in the clouds, giving everything a silver glow.
Carter poured water into the coffeemaker, tapped the coffee into the filtered chamber, clicked it shut and flipped the switch. He wiped out the grinder and set it in its place on the counter before taking a closer look at his backyard. Water droplets reflected shades of green in and out of shimmering shadow as a breeze moved through the treetops. And, in the middle of the yard, atop a thick carpet of leaves and magnolia blossoms, sat what looked like George Grimbel’s lawn chair.
Great. Grimbel would probably find a way to pick a fight about why Carter now had his lawn chair. A preemptive strike was in order. With luck, he could toss the chair back across the fence before Grimbel noticed it was missing. Carter dashed to the bedroom and threw on some clothes. Too late. By the time he reached his back porch, the old man was leaning over the fence separating their properties.
“You seem to have my chair, Worthington,” Grimbel rasped. His white hair stuck out in a halo from ear to ear, with a wisp on the top of his freckled pate. Eyebrows like the feather tufts of a great horned owl poked over the rims of his trifocals, and gray stubble filled the creases along his sagging jaw. His gnarled fingers, mottled with age spots, gripped the top of the wooden fence.
“Must have blown over in the storm. I was just coming out to bring it back.” Carter walked across the yard and picked up the chair, giving George his best Keep the Peace smile. “Doesn’t seem to be too much other damage, though, does it? Guess we were lucky.”
“You were lucky. Me, I’ve got a hole in my roof big enough to launch a Delta rocket, and enough rain in my living room to float the Titanic.”
“Sorry to hear that. Insurance should cover it, though.” He bit back the urge to tell Grimbel that if he’d kept his trees trimmed properly, he’d probably still have his roof. Come to think of it, the tree branch in his own living room was from an oak tree, and Carter didn’t have any oak trees on his property. Grimbel, however, did. Carter glanced in the direction of Grimbel’s yard. Okay, used to.
“If I can ever get through to them,” Grimbel whined. “Every other poor slob in town is probably trying to call in a claim. And I don’t have any power.”
An uneasy feeling built in Carter’s stomach. Where was Grimbel going with this?
“Do I smell coffee? I’d kill for a cup,” Grimbel continued.
Carter forced a smile. “I have some. Why don’t you come—?” Before Carter finished speaking, Grimbel was walking toward Carter’s door. He squared his shoulders and went back into the kitchen.
“Where’s the cream?” Grimbel demanded as Carter poured a cup of steaming coffee into a mug. “And sugar. Black coffee gives me gas.”
“Hold on.” Carter found the milk in the fridge and brought it to the counter.
Grimbel grabbed the carton from Carter’s grasp. He squinted, holding it at arm’s length. “Two percent? You can’t use two percent milk in coffee. Like adding piss.”
Carter reached around him for a plastic container and carried it to the counter. “Sugar?” he asked, pulling a spoon from a drawer.
Despite his protestations about the milk, Grimbel added a liberal amount to his coffee, followed by four heaping spoo
ns of sugar.
“Can I get anything else for you?” Carter asked through gritted teeth.
“I’m fine,” Grimbel replied. His threadbare brown robe revealed ropy calves and knobby knees. And if he didn’t do something, he’d be revealing a lot more than varicose veins, things Carter had no desire to see. Being neighborly only went so far.
“Mr. Grimbel,” Carter said, gesturing to the man’s midsection. “You … uh … might want to get the fruits back in the loom.”
Grimbel snorted, but set down his coffee long enough to tighten his robe before heading for the living room. Carter shoved the milk into the fridge and hurried after him, wary of the way the mug wobbled in the old man’s hand
“Good to see I wasn’t the only one Mother Nature had a grudge against last night,” Grimbel said. He meandered through the living room, his slippers crunching on the glass. Carter cringed at the thought of it being imbedded in the rugs. He stood by as Grimbel ran his gnarled fingers over his CD collection, pulling out several, flipping them over, then returning them without regard to their proper spots on the shelf. He groaned inwardly as the man put his fingerprints all over a Steuben vase, and his heart stopped when Grimbel tried to examine an antique Chinese porcelain vase without relinquishing his shaky hold on his coffee mug. He exhaled with relief when the man set it back in its place unharmed.
Grimbel turned slowly around. “You’ve got some nice stuff. Ought to get some plastic and cover the window.” He settled into Carter’s easy chair and put his scuffed slippers on the ottoman. “Claire liked nice things.”
“Claire?” Carter asked without thinking. Damn, now he’d probably be stuck listening to the old man blather on forever.
Outside, a car door slammed. “Tinkerbell, come back here!” a female voice called out. “Come! Now!”
Carter crossed to the living room’s front window and pulled back the curtain, forgetting about the lowered hurricane shutter. His view of the street was gone. Maybe he should leave them down. He’d picked this neighborhood for its privacy—a little more wouldn’t hurt.
He turned to Grimbel. The old man’s eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Carter pried the coffee mug from the gnarled hands and set it on a coaster on the cherry side table. He reached to shake the man’s shoulder, to wake him and get him out of his house.
“Grampa! Where are you? Grampa!” The same female voice, high-pitched with fear, rang out. His doorbell chimed, followed by an incessant rapping.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath. He left Grimbel to his nap, hoping the man wouldn’t wake up and ruin anything before he got back.
He pulled the door open. A wide-eyed pixie of a woman stood on the leaf-strewn tile of his front entry. A froth of corkscrew-curled hair, almost black, looked like it had been through the hurricane. Her blue cotton shirt was wrinkled, as if she’d slept in it. Gazing up and down the street behind her, Carter noted Grimbel wasn’t the only neighbor who had lost trees to the storm.
“Have you seen my grandfather?” she asked, her voice frantic. “George Grimbel? He lives next door, and I can’t find him, and Tinkerbell ran off, and there’s a hole in the roof and water everywhere and I tried to get here last night but I had to evacuate and spend the night in a shelter and this was as soon as I could get here.”
“Whoa. Calm down. Your grandfather is here. He’s fine.”
“Thank God.” She pushed past him as if he were five-two and she was six-feet instead of the reverse. “Grampa. It’s me. Tiffie.”
Barging in must run in the family. He clawed his fingers through his hair, then stroked his beard. He turned and hurried after her. “He’s asleep.” Not for long, he guessed, with his granddaughter chattering like a magpie.
“Oh my.” She stopped short and he barely avoided a rear-end collision.
Grimbel’s snores filled the room. The woman shook her head. “Poor Grampa. He must have had a horrible time with the storm, all by himself and all.”
“He seemed all right to me. We were talking, and he fell asleep.”
“He does that sometimes. Probably didn’t sleep much last night. I’ll get him out of your hair.” She stepped to the chair and laid her hand on Grimbel’s shoulder. “Grampa, wake up. Time to get you home.”
Grimbel snorted and snuffled, but gave no signs of awakening. If anything, he settled deeper into the chair.
She jiggled his shoulder. “Come on, Grampa.”
If not for the steady snoring, Carter might have worried the man had died in his living room. Outside, the grinding of chainsaws punctuated the morning stillness. Grimbel could give them some stiff competition.
“Is this normal for him?” Carter asked. “Should I call a doctor?”
She looked in his direction. Her blue eyes were a few shades darker than her shirt. Freckles splashed her fair skin, across an upturned nose. There was a smudge of something on her left cheek, and he fought an uncharacteristic urge to wipe it away.
“He’s healthy as a horse, as far as I know. Too cantankerous to get sick. Germs don’t stand a chance. But when he sleeps, he’s out.”
Carter debated carrying the man back to his house. A tropical storm provided enough disruption to his routine. He didn’t need the added chaos of a couple of eccentric intruders.
Worthingtons are never rude. His father’s voice roared in his head. You must learn to set an example of proper behavior.
His gut clenched, but ingrained manners pushed their way to the surface. “I’ve got some fresh coffee if you’d like a cup. Maybe by then, he’ll be awake.”
She smiled. Beamed, actually. The entire room seemed to brighten. Her eyes crinkled to almost nothing and a dimple appeared in her right cheek. “Coffee. Oh, there is a God. Yes. Please. I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”
He found himself returning her smile without effort. “No trouble at all.”
They sat at the dining room table where she could keep an eye on her grandfather.
“I really appreciate this,” she said, working on her third refill. She set her cup in its saucer and waved her hand over the silver sugar and creamer. “But there was no need for the fancy stuff.”
“You’re a guest.” He glanced at her unadorned left ring finger. “Miss Grimbel.”
“It’s Breeze, actually. Tiffany Breeze. Grampa’s my mother’s father.” She stared at him expectantly.
“Oh. I’m Carter Worthington.” He left off The Fourth. “I should have introduced myself earlier.”
“No problem. I didn’t give you much of a chance. Everyone calls me Tiffie. That’s from when I was little and couldn’t say Tiffany. I never liked the name, like I’m supposed to be this precious gem or something, and I’m really totally ordinary, but at least Mom talked Dad out of naming me Summer. That would have been too much, don’t you think?” She paused for half a breath. “What do your friends call you?”
He lifted his eyebrows. Friends? He went out of his way to avoid them. “Carter, usually.” Unless you were his father, in which case it was Worthless.
“Even in school? No nicknames?”
None anyone would use to his face. Not at a fancy prep school. He shook his head and shrugged.
She tilted her head, and for a moment, he feared she was seeing beyond his carefully cultivated expression, seeing the pain of buried memories.
“More coffee?” he asked, pushing away from the table.
She shook her head. “I’ve had plenty.” She glanced around. “Would it be okay if I used your bathroom? Tinkerbell and I were on the road a long time. Ohmigod. Tink. I’ve got to find her. How could I forget all about her?” She looked torn, as if she couldn’t decide which need was more urgent.
“I’m sure Tinkerbell will be all right for another couple of minutes,” he said. “There’s a powder room off the entry.”
“Thanks.” She dashed away, and he swore the room dimmed. Must be a power glitch after the storm. He did not need any disruptions. He had a deadline i
n less than a month, and an editor breathing down his neck for a synopsis of the next Beau Banner book. He’d already wasted yesterday with hurricane preparations, and the loquacious Miss Breeze and her grandfather weren’t helping.
Or were they? He realized he’d already made mental notes of their mannerisms, their descriptions, their quirks. Maybe Beau Banner would meet someone like Tiffany Breeze. He wondered how his bold adventurer would manage. He smiled at the thought.
Footfalls announced her return, and he erased his smile—or most of it, anyway.
“Thanks for looking after Grampa,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go look for Tink. As soon as I round her up, I’ll be back. Grampa should be awake by then, and we’ll all be out of your hair.”
“Don’t worry about it.” At last.
She turned to go, and he followed her to the door. She’d gotten halfway down the driveway when some ventriloquist demon took command of his voice. “Miss Breeze?”
She whirled and faced him, smiling that damn smile. “Yes?”
“Perhaps when you return, you’d like to join me for breakfast?”
“Sounds great. The shelter didn’t have anything. Thanks.”
He watched the way her jeans hugged her derriere as she bent inside her car and retrieved a leash. The way her hips swayed as she wandered down the block, whistling and calling for Tinkerbell. Research, he told himself. Purely for research. Why else would he want to spend any of his precious writing time not writing? He stepped a little farther down his entry, telling himself research was writing, too.
The next thing he knew, her voice rang out. “Tink, no!” He turned to see a monster from hell charging directly at him. And then he was flat on his back, a huge, smelly, furry, drooling beast hovering over him.
His blood froze. He was six years old, on a rare visit to the park with his mother instead of his nanny. A German shepherd approached the playground. Don’t touch that creature, Carter. He’ll bite you. And he’s likely full of fleas and other ugly germs.
Fears compounded over the years overwhelmed him. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands.
“Mr. Worthington? It’s okay. She won’t hurt you. She’s a pussycat.”
Tiffany’s words worked their way through the swirling terror. The weight of the dog was gone. He took several deep breaths, then opened his eyes. Hers hovered above him, filled with concern. He mustered a weak smile. “Sorry. She took me by surprise. I must have hit my head.” He struggled to his feet, hoping she bought his lie. And that she couldn’t see his knees trembling.
“She’s tied up now. Tinkerbell doesn’t know her own strength. Thinks she’s a lap dog.”
He braved a glance in the direction Tiffany was pointing. “Interesting name,” he said. “What does she weigh? A hundred pounds?”
“Closer to one-twenty, I think. Her lineage is … mixed, to say the least, but I think there’s some shepherd, some retriever, and a St. Bernard somewhere in her family tree.”
“Mastiff comes to mind,” he said.
“Look, I’m really sorry about everything. I’ll wake Grampa and we’re out of here. I’ll take a rain check on breakfast.”
Eating didn’t appeal to him at the moment either. He held on to the column at the edge of his entry and let his pulse slow. Once he was sure he could walk without staggering, he went inside. Tiffany stood beside his easy chair, helping Grimbel to his feet.
“Let’s go home, Grampa. Mr. Worthington has work to do.”
Grimbel grunted and levered himself out of the chair. He pushed away Tiffany’s attempts to help. “I’m not a cripple.” He shuffled across the floor, nodding at Carter on his way out. “Get some real cream.”
Before Carter could answer, Tiffany spoke. “Come on, Grampa. Let’s go check out the damage.” I’m sorry, she mouthed as they left.
Carter closed the door behind them, then put a Mozart CD into the player. The Marriage of Figaro’s overture soared throughout the house. He went straight to his bathroom and ran a long, hot shower, trying to wash away memories of the morning. After toweling off, he found a spare plastic shower curtain liner under the sink. It would serve as a temporary solution to the broken window in his living room. He’d slipped into shorts and sandals and was searching for his hammer when the doorbell rang.
Tiffany stood there, minus her dog and grandfather, a contrite expression on her face. “I’m sorry to bother you again. Grampa’s phone is dead. May I borrow yours to call the insurance company?” She held out a cell phone and charger. “And maybe some electricity to recharge my cell? Our power’s off.”
He stepped aside, aware she was staring at his bare chest. He pointed her to the kitchen. “Phone’s on the wall,” he said and left to put on a shirt.
He came back to find her pacing the kitchen, phone to her ear, a scowl on her face. “On hold,” she said.
“No hurry.” He nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic way and found the hammer and a box of nails in the utility closet. Sweat trickled down his face as he dealt with the offending branch and hammered the plastic into place. IIf his father could see him now, doing menial labor. Just leave it. That’s why we pay servants, boy. He pounded harder. He finished the last nail and stepped back to admire his handiwork. And bumped into Tiffany. She held a broom and dustpan.
“I thought I could help sweep up the glass. I’m really sorry about Tinkerbell.”
“Forget it.” He took the broom and began sweeping. “I wasn’t paying attention. She caught me off guard.”
She crouched to hold the dustpan. “You don’t like dogs, do you?”
The top two buttons of her shirt were unfastened, revealing soft round curves of her breasts. He concentrated on the glass shards, making sure they went into the dustpan and not all over her slender fingers with their pink-polished nails. Damn. Research. That’s all. Normal to observe and file away for use later. He exhaled.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“What? I’m sorry. I missed it.”
“You don’t like dogs.”
“It’s not that I don’t like them. I just never had much use for them.”
Her look said she didn’t buy his lie, but she didn’t press.
“Did you get in touch with the insurance company?” he asked.
“For what it’s worth. We’re on the list and they’ll get to us as soon as they can.” She hesitated, tugging on her curls. “I’d really appreciate it if I can send a couple of emails to let my family know we’re all right”
“Sure.”
He stopped at the door to his study. Nobody came in here, not even his housekeeper, and he was opening his sanctuary to a stranger. He twisted the knob, stepped across the room and opened his Internet browser. “All yours.” He retreated to the easy chair, letting her log on privately.
Her hands alternated between the mouse and keyboard, her gaze intent on the monitor. Outside, more and more chainsaws overpowered his Mozart. In a matter of days, the neighborhood would have a new face. Like his. He stroked his beard.
His stomach knotted and he pushed back the memories of talk show interviews, book signings, the luncheon circuit—all those things his publisher had required with his first book. He’d been physically ill before every event. Never again. His longer hair and full beard ensured he bore no resemblance to the young, clean-cut preppie on his first book jacket. No more pictures. From that point on, he’d demanded total anonymity. He’d bought this house and had became a recluse who never bothered anyone. Certainly no one suspected that he had authored six bestsellers to date, had a likely seventh almost complete, with a contract for three more.
“All done.” Tiffany’s voice brought him back. “Thanks. Should I close your browser?”
“Please,” he said.
She pointed to the photograph of his grandfather on the edge of his desk. “Your father?”
“Grandfather.” When Carter’s parents had renounced him for his pursuit of a wr
iting career, only his grandfather had believed in him. Had sneaked him money to cover rent and food while he’d struggled to get his first work published. And had died the day before the contract from the publisher, along with a tidy advance, had arrived in the mail.
“I take it you like Grant Gardner. You’ve got all his books.”
Hearing his nom de plume snapped him to reality. Damn. He’d been wallowing in memories and she’d wandered to his bookshelf and held one in her hand. He stood, resisting the urge to grab the book from her. “They make an entertaining read. Pass the time.”
“I’ve read them,” she said. “Not bad.”
“Not bad? They’re usually bestsellers.” Great. Instead of letting it pass, his ego had to jump out.
“I guess. The plots are good. The descriptions are first rate. But Grant Gardner really ought to get in touch with his emotions. His characters are kind of flat. It’s okay when Beau Banner is working—he has to focus on his job. But he’s practically a robot in bed. Tab A into slot B and it’s over. No involvement. It was okay in the first couple of books, when he had a different woman each time, but the last three he’s been with what’s her name.”
Francesca La Forge.
“Francesca,” she said, as if she’d read his thought. “By now, it should be a relationship, you know. He seems so … cold. And she’s just there, at his beck and call. Never says no to anything. Not that realistic.”
He rubbed his nose. “It is fiction, after all.”
“Yeah, well this Grant Gardner guy should read a couple of romance novels. If he gets a little more emotion into the characters, he’d probably double his reading market. Women buy most of the books, you know.”
“You’re quite the expert. Are you a book reviewer? Work in publishing?”
“Nope. Just an avid reader. From cereal boxes on up. I love libraries.” She put the book back in its proper place on the shelf and smiled again. This time the room didn’t seem to brighten. “Thanks again. I’ve got to get back to Grampa.”
She left. He sank onto the ottoman.
Bullshit. What did a flibbertigibbet know about Beau Banner? He moved to his desk, opened his word processor and clicked on his manuscript file. Chapter Twenty-Seven headed the page. Twenty minutes and countless deletions later, the page remained the same.
No problem. Writing wasn’t easy. He needed a minor diversion, then he’d be back in full swing. He stood, stretched, and roamed the house for a few minutes. With the plastic nailed over his window, the sight that focused him—a view of a neatly mowed lawn and a stately magnolia tree—was gone. Avoiding the phone in his study, he went to the kitchen and called a glazier. Friday was the earliest appointment he could get. A call to the carpet store brought assurances they could handle any damage and a promise someone would be out the next day to pick them up for cleaning.
He rolled both carpets and dragged them to his foyer for tomorrow’s pickup. Next, he got out the vacuum cleaner and ran it over the entire living room floor. The machine made a satisfying clinking sound as it picked up stray bits of dirt, leaves and glass the earlier pass with the broom had missed. Soon, all traces of Julia-induced disorder would be gone.
As he worked, Tiffany’s words played back. His books all made the bestseller list, but he’d never had one in the top five. Was Beau Banner actually that much of a cold fish? When Carter created him, Beau was everything Carter couldn’t be. Outgoing—brazen, even. Quick to respond in a crisis. Capable of split second decisions. Respected by his peers. Attractive to women.
Almost in dispute, the vacuum cleaner made a loud clattering sound, then whirred. The ozone-charged smell of something electrical burning filled the air. Carter fumbled for the off switch. He flipped the machine on its side, not sure what he was looking for. Beau would know how to fix it, he thought, probably with one of his lock-picking tools. Or a stick of gum. Disgusted, Carter rewound the cord, put the machine in the closet and went back to his study.