Second Chance Love (17 page)

“This is the chance to set that right. The company is wiped out and there’s no saving it, but Bernice Sanderson has figured out a way that I can fund a pool for everyone that worked for Larson Industries.” He began swiping through the pictures and personnel files. “Based on the assets I have, I think I can give everyone six months' severance pay. It doesn’t solve all their problems, but it gives them a leg up. It’ll let Maria finish her GED so she has a shot at the opportunity she deserves. That money will do a lot more good for them than it would us. Anyway, if I get market value for the condo and some of my collectibles, we’ll be okay, too. I won’t be driving a $200,000 car any more—"

Elizabeth mis-swallowed her iced tea, choking a bit. “What? Your car cost
two hundred thousand dollars?
”

Steve nodded ruefully. “The latest and greatest does not come cheap. I’ll tell you, though, I like the Taurus just fine. As soon as I figure out how to roll the windows down and change the station on the radio, I’ll be good to go. Anyway, after I fund the six months of severance, we’ll have a little bit left to start over with. I built a company once. I can do it again.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Honey. This is a lot to digest, but let’s start at the beginning. I love you. That wouldn't change just because of your first thought in a moment of disaster.”

Steve opened his mouth to interrupt, but Elizabeth held up a finger. "Just listen. I know your heart. I never want you to worry about mine." The waterworks finally won. “I’m proud of you. All you've built, all your hard work, has just gone up in smoke, and you’re more worried about your employees than you are yourself. When you found me last Christmas, I was looking for my last ten dollars to buy a Christmas tree. Do you think I care about driving a car that costs such a ridiculous amount?”

“I doubt it?”

Elizabeth smiled. It lit up the room, and his life.

“I don't care about any cars, or fancy toys. Not a bit. I care about spending time together. Nothing else matters much to me."

Max's voice issued from the surround sound speakers. “Elizabeth, the casserole you put in is due to come out now. Also, you asked me to alert you five minutes before
Guest House Gestapo
came on. That time is now.”

“Thank you, Max. Please turn on the television and put it on channel 117.”

A Samsung 60" television rose from a large stand. It was already on, showing a promo for
America’s Next Top Model.
Elizabeth uncurled herself from the couch and went into the kitchen to get the casserole.

The
Guest House Gestapo
logo, a fist superimposed over stylized chains, appeared on the screen to music that sounded like a shotgun marriage between Wagner and the
Monday Night Football
theme. Skip Corcoran, the host, stepped from behind a curtain wearing a solemn expression that ill fit his face.

“Good evening, America,” began Skip. Steve paused on Skip's close-up, loathing the man's colored-lens blue eyes one last luxuriant time. Steve was not a violent man, but more than twenty hours of Skip's supercilious mug had taken a toll over the summer.
If I ever get the chance
, thought Steve,
I may just wipe that plastic smile off that little twit's face with a right cross
.

“Lizzie! It’s starting!”

Lizzie hurried out of the kitchen with two steaming plates of food, announcing: “Broccoli casserole, a la Elizabeth.”

Steve's tastes ran more to meat and potatoes, but he had been trying to lose weight. Elizabeth was pitching in with healthy meals. “Looks great, Honey. Thanks for cooking.”

Elizabeth handed him a plate and sat down. “Okay. Ready.”

Steve pushed a button on the remote. Skip resumed his intro: “Tonight is the night we’ve been waiting for all season. Tonight, we will crown our first ever
Guest House Gestapo
champion.”

"Tonight is the night we get shut of Skip Corcoran, ideally for eternity," Steve remarked.

Skip did not add that he would also be crowning the show's last and only champion.
GHG
had opened to anemic ratings, which had fallen every week. Even on the CW, where any ratings pulse at all was a moral victory, the show was a failure. Production had decided to cancel
GHG
after the fourth episode, but aired the remaining shows because they had a contractual obligation to choose and pay a winner, and they felt they might as well wring whatever benefit they could from the mess.

“Tonight, the former detainees will be the ones casting the votes, choosing between stockbroker Ron, Valerie, the roller skating waitress, and Gail, the chatty retail clerk. We’ll have that vote and reveal our winner…right after this message.”

Six weeks into the show’s run, Gail met her first serious challenge. Jamaal, a linebacker at Grambling, and Bruce, the waiter from Vallejo, California, had formed an early alliance. Both were students of reality TV and were playing to win. Seeing danger in Gail's unassailable popularity, they hatched a lie in hopes of having her 'arrested.' They told everyone that the gabby homemaker routine was just an act. In reality, they said, Gail was a serving military intelligence officer keeping secret dossiers on all of them. When the time came, they claimed, she would drop the hammer.

The show's few pundits counted Gail out. They all reckoned without America. Throughout the show, the producers allowed the TV audience to vote on various challenges and exceptions to show's rules. That week, America voted to broadcast audio of Jamaal and Bruce's conversation hatching the plan, with many damning statements about most of the other contestants. Gail was saved, Bruce was put up in her place, Jamal followed the next week, and her safety in the Guest House never faced another serious challenge.

Steve took a bite of the casserole. “Hey, this is actually pretty good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Max and I are a great team in the kitchen. Now hush, we’re about to find out who wins.”

That, of course, was not true. Most of the episode consisted of 'highlight' flashbacks, interviews with family members, and whatever else could pad thirty-eight minutes of airtime. After the commercials finished with a middle-aged woman skipping through a park without a care, confident that her weakening bladder would pose no more obstacles to her active lifestyle, Skip brought out the players who had been arrested too soon to qualify for the jury and interviewed them about their “journey.”

“I don’t even remember that one,” Steve said, when Skip interviewed the second girl that had been muscled out of the Guest House. Most of the players were interchangeably forgettable. Rumor had it that two-thirds had been recruited from the ranks of Hollywood's young, beautiful, and half-desperate.

After another commercial break, dominated by an Australian pitchman and testimonials from women who had asked their doctors about a drug with an unpronounceable name, Skip interviewed the jury about the “terribly hard decision” before them. For the most part, the jury was peeved at the whole process and would prefer to not give the money to anyone, but would go through the motions anyway. Then came another commercial break.

“I think they have about thirty seconds worth of actual material tonight and they’re stretching it out to an hour,” Elizabeth said.

“Thirty might be pushing it," Steve added.

Finally, fifty-five minutes into the hour, Skip stood alone on the stage. “It’s the moment we’ve been waiting for all season," he lied. "Dim the lights, please. Kurt, Agnes, step forward to arrest our third-place finisher.”

Two young blonds stepped forward, a man and a woman dressed in brown military-style shirts and shorts. Kurt looked like he could have lasted at least six rounds with Mike Tyson. Agnes looked like Kurt had better not mess with her. They stood immediately behind the three contestants, arms crossed across their impressive chests.

“All the votes are counted. After seventy-one days under the eye of the
Guest House Gestapo,
our third place finisher is…” Of course, Skip paused here, as the camera panned across the faces of the three finalists. “…Valerie, the roller skating waitress from Batesville, Arkansas.” He remembered to add the formal words: "Valerie, you are under arrest." However, the 'live' studio audience made enough noise to render him ineffectual.

Agnes stepped forward, towering head and shoulders over perky little Valerie. She put a sculpted forearm around the smaller woman’s neck and led her offstage.

Skip stepped directly in front of Ron and Gail. Ron looked young, tanned, and confident. Gail beamed as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

“All good things must come to an end…” Skip intoned.

“So must all mediocre things,” Steve interjected.

“…the winner of Season One of
Guest House Gestapo
, and one hundred thousand dollars
is… Gail Weathers!”

Spotlights whipped around the studio as Kurt grabbed Ron in an arm bar and whisked him offstage. Sirens went off, what sounded like a kennel of German Shepherds began barking off stage left, and confetti fell from the ceiling.

Gail’s hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide as she performed her maximum vertical leap of approximately six inches, hands flapping and fanning, saying something the microphones could not pick up. Steve and Elizabeth jumped off the couch, hugged, and cheered.

Skip approached her with caution. The few times he had asked Gail a question during the live interview segments, he’d been forced to cut to a commercial in mid-sentence.

“Congratulations, Gail. How does it feel to win
Guest House Gestapo
?”

“Oh my goodness, Skip, I’m almost speechless.”

Steve and Elizabeth, still in a half-embrace, looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“I didn’t know if I would win or not,” Gail said, “but I didn’t really care. I’ve just had such a wonderful summer hanging out with all these great kids. They’re really like the kids I never had, you know. I’m really going to miss them. Now I’ve got to decide what to do with all that money. I’m definitely going to spice up my wardrobe, and I’m going to upgrade my basic cable package so that I get all those premium movie channels…”

Skip stood by, looking for an opening, but Gail did not provide openings.

“…and I think I might eat out a little more often. I get tired of always heating up those one-person meals from the freezer. I’m going to have to watch my girlish figure, though. Now that I’ve got this much money, I might have to fight off the gentleman callers with a stick…”

Gail was still talking as Skip gave a sickly little wave at the camera. The credits rolled.

“Congrats, Lizzie," said Steve. "You are friends with a genuine media phenomenon.”

“It won't change her.”

Steve took a bite of his casserole.
I believe that
.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

October was on the wane. For twenty years, Elizabeth had nursed a forlorn Halloween desire: to hand out candy to little costumed ghouls and goblins. She rarely had trick-or-treaters at her apartment, aside from a few children she knew from the building. In her neighborhood, most parents kept smaller children indoors after dark, even on Halloween.

Closing time came at
The Prints and the Pauper
. Elizabeth turned the OPEN sign to the CLOSED side, then caught the crosstown bus to Steve’s condo and changed into a witch costume. Steve had a meeting concerning the winding down of Larson Industries, and would not be home for a while, but that was all right.

Or not. For two hours, she sat with increasing dejection. The doorbell did not ring. Except for a few bars she had pilfered for herself, the bowl of Snickers, Butterfingers, and Skittles sat undepleted beside her.

At 7:30, Steve got home and walked into the living room. There sat Elizabeth, sitting next to a small pile of empty candy wrappers, watching
Hocus Pocus
on television.

“What’s wrong, Lizzie?”

“I wanted to spend Halloween here because I thought there would be lots of little ones out trick-or-treating in this neighborhood. I brought candy, but I'm the only one who's eating it. I might gain five pounds if we don’t find a way to give some of this away.”

Steve shook his head. “Lizzie, I live in the penthouse of a secure building.”
At least for the moment
, he thought. Steve had just listed the condo with Larson's real estate branch, but it would not enter the multiple listing service until the following Monday. “It takes a password just to make the elevator come to this floor. I’ve lived here eleven years and never had a single trick-or-treater.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth’s voice was small. “Of course. I should have thought about that.”

“Wait just a minute. I’ve got an idea. Stay right here.”

Steve retreated to the bedroom for a few minutes, then reappeared wearing a black tuxedo and a half mask covering the right side of his face. “I had this left over from a costume ball a few years ago. What do you think?”

Elizabeth started to laugh. “I think you look wonderful. Who are you supposed to be?”

“C’mon, Lizzie! I’m the phantom.
Phantom of the Opera?
”

“Oh! Like the old book by Gaston Leroux!”

“Well, kind of. Like the Broadway musical that Andrew Lloyd Webber based on the old book. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen
Phantom?
”

Lizzie's face colored as if Steve had just pointed out toilet paper adhering to her heel. Her voice fell to a shameful whisper. “Don't ever tell anyone. I haven't even read the actual book, much less seen the play.”

“Not a soul," Steve stage-whispered. "It's on yo—"

"My Kindle. I know. I will get on it soon," said Elizabeth, playing along.

"Well, we’re going to have to take care of the play. It’s wonderful. But for tonight, you’ll have to be happy with having the Phantom escort you.”

“Escort me? I didn’t know we were going anywhere.”

“We’re not going far. Come on, and bring any of that candy you haven’t munched.” They got into the elevator, serenaded by a Muzak version of
Monster Mash
, then stepped out into a quiet lobby with most of the lights dimmed for the evening. Winston, the evening doorman, was at his normal post.

“Evening, Winston.”

“Happy All Hallows Eve, Mr. Larson, Ms. Coleman.”

“Winston, Elizabeth has a strong desire to give candy to the little ones. Would it be all right if she acted as your assistant for the evening? I will be glad to serve as the assistant to your assistant.”

“I’m afraid the rules strictly forbid it, sir. However, I would be very surprised if anyone were to complain. If she would like to help, I certainly have other duties that do not entail depositing sweets into luminous pumpkins.”

Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “Do you get many trick-or-treaters here?”

Winston nodded gravely. “Hordes of junior undead, witches, and other fearful creatures. We participate in the downtown
No Tricks, Just Treats
program. I believe the Homeowners’ Association sees it as good public relations. You’ve caught me in a reloading period between waves of the costumed wave.”

Just then, the revolving door started to spin. An excited little princess from
Frozen
came tumbling in, followed by juvenile versions of a hobo, a zombie, and Ronald Reagan—complete to mask and dark blue suit. “Trick or treat!” they chorused.

Elizabeth reached into the bowl and dropped a small handful of candy into each of the proffered treat bags. Before she was done with the group, another group of costumed kids came along.

The next hour allowed Elizabeth to fulfill her Halloween yearning, while also allowing Winston and Steve to sit back and discuss the World Series, which had gone a full seven games, and the Seahawks' dominance.

Elizabeth had refilled her bowl twice from the candy behind Winston’s desk and was just about to do so again when Steve’s phone rang. He excused himself to Winston, looked at his phone, did not recognize the number, and decided to answer. “Hello?”

“Is this Steven Larson?” A woman’s voice. Professional.

“Yes, it is. Can I help you?”

“Mr. Larson, this is Annette at Riverview General. Your mother has been brought into our emergency room and she asked me to call and tell you.”

Steve blinked and felt his throat go dry. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I understand that you are concerned, but I don’t have any information available.”

“We’ll be right there,” Steve said. “Lizzie? That was the hospital. There’s something wrong with Mother.”