Second Time Around (26 page)

Make the baby go away.

He kissed her forehead. “You can take care of that particular mistake on Monday. Today, we have other items on our list.”

Her breath left her. An abortion lowered to the position of groceries and booze on a “to-do” list?

He put his arm around her and led her toward the kitchen, talking all the way. She hadn’t the strength to break free of his control.

But she wanted to. She really wanted to.

And that was progress.

Vanessa knew she wasn’t being a very good hostess. Not that the table wasn’t set to perfection. Not that she didn’t remove the plates from the left and serve from the right. Her lack of perfection came in regard to the conversation. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t concentrate on what her father and this contractor, this David Stancowsky, were saying.

Actually, most of the time she wasn’t expected to. When they talked of her father’s bank building, she knew she was free to let her mind wander. But not too far. At any moment she might be asked a question, and if she wasn’t careful she would look as dumb as she often did in class when a teacher interrupted a daydream. It had happened once already when her father had asked her to serve more coffee. From the tight look on his face, she knew it wasn’t the first time he’d asked.

When she finished pouring and offering Mr. Stancowsky the cream and sugar, he drew her into the conversation. “And how is college going, Miss Pruitt?”

She glanced at her father, hoping he wouldn’t share her academic failings.

No such luck.

“Vanessa has trouble reaching her full potential.”

She felt herself blush but was relieved when Mr. Stancowsky said, “A common problem, I’m afraid. Myself included.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back, vowing to pay attention to every word this man said. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “Actually, I was thinking of quitting school.”

Her father choked on his coffee.

A surge of pleasure flowed through her and she knew what it was: power. So this is how her father felt when he dropped a bombshell, when he took over a conversation.

His face was red. “No daughter of mine is going to quit school. If you need me to go to the dean, to your teachers, I’ll go. I’ll fix it like I’ve always fixed it, but you will not—I repeat—will not quit school. You can’t.”

“I can.” And with those words she knew it was true. She had choices—in regard to all her life. Not just school.

David patted the table between them. His voice was a calm ripple compared to her father’s roar. “A long time ago, I heard a woman say this, and for some reason it’s stuck with me: ‘Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.’”

She was stunned. “That’s my mother’s favorite saying.”

Her father harrumphed. “Baloney to that. Those who can should.”

She let the two men discuss the semantics and let her mind apply the wisdom of it. The words had been an elixir to her confusion. The point was she
could
quit. She
could
have the baby. She
could
have a relationship with her mother. And even Lewis… Life was suddenly full of possibilities. The question was, should she take them?

Her father sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “Forgive me, David, but I don’t think that’s the kind of advice you should be giving to an ignorant child.”

“I’m not a child, Father.”

David smiled. “No indeed. And I can see she’s far from ignorant.” He fingered the handle of his coffee cup, giving her his eyes. “Don’t give up on school, Vanessa. Figure out what’s wrong and fix it.”

Her father put his napkin on the table. “That’s what I said. I’ll go fix—”

“No!” That one word took all her air. She took a fresh breath. “I’ll fix it.” She stood, half expecting her legs to buckle. When they did not, she said, “Would you like me to freshen your coffee, Mr. Stancowsky?”

He winked at her. “That would be nice.”

When her father and David withdrew to the den to go over blueprints, Vanessa quickly cleared the table, settled things with the cook, and escaped upstairs to bed. At eleven fifteen she heard a tap on her bedroom door. She did not answer it. And when the door opened and her father peered in, she pretended she was asleep.

There was only so much courage a girl could display in one day.

Dawson—1987

Lane and Brandy stood side by side at the bathroom sink. Lane leaned toward the mirror, her mouth open as she put on mascara, while Brandy tried to tame her hair. “It’s hopeless,” she said.

Lane returned the wand to the tube. “What’s hopeless?”

“My hair, my makeup, my everything.” She took Lane by the shoulders and stood behind her, glaring into the mirror. “Look at you. Against my advice you get yourself a tomboy cut in the land of long permed curls and big bangs, and you look magnificent. My hair looks like I put my finger in a light socket.”

“Next time you’ll have to go to a salon for a perm. It’s partly my fault. I’m not very good at rolling.”

“Sure, next time I have an extra thirty bucks sitting around, I’ll splurge.” She leaned her chin on Lane’s shoulder, looking at both their reflections. “Life’s not fair.”

Lane hated when Brandy was pessimistic, but couldn’t argue. Her friend
did
seem to get more than her share of bad breaks. Lane tried to do what she could to even things out. Luckily, Brandy had moved beyond fighting the charity of it, accepting it as an act of sisterhood.

Lane rummaged through her makeup bag. “Want to try this new lip gloss? Toby says it tastes like watermelon.”

“And who, in my case, will care?”

Never mind.

They put the makeup away. “I did notice Simon Blalock looking at me funny the other day,” Brandy said. “I think he wants me.”

“Yuck.”

“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You know I hate that. Someday you’ll find the perfect man who will adore you, you’ll have tons of kids, and be ecstatically happy.”

Brandy ran the water, cleaning out the sink. “I doubt it. I is what I is, Lane.”

“You’re beautiful—to me. And you’re my very best friend.”

Brandy put the hairspray under the sink. “That I am. Are you ready? The world awaits.”

Lane guessed it wasn’t a good time to bring up the fact that she was engaged…

Lane was just settling into her desk in German class when Brandy stormed in, slammed her backpack onto her seat, and faced her. “How could you?”

Lane glanced around the room and was really glad Herr Schallert wasn’t around yet. “Shh! How could I what?”

“Get engaged without telling me!”

“You’re engaged?” Laurie Baker asked from two rows away.

“Uh… yes, but—” Within moments, Lane was surrounded by the girls in the room. The boys faced forward.

“When are you getting married?”

“How did Toby ask you?”

But before Lane could answer, Brandy grabbed her backpack. “I’m outta here.”

“Brandy…” Lane had no choice but to follow.

She ran into the teacher on his way in. “Where are you going, Fraulein Holloway?”

Brandy turned the corner at the end of the hall. Lane had to hurry. “Emergency, Herr Schallert. I’m sorry. I’ll come in after school and talk to you.” She didn’t wait for him to argue with her.

Lane heard the push bar of the front door and saw Brandy running down the steps. She ran after her. “Brandy! Stop!”

Brandy turned and walked backward. “Why should I?”

“Because you owe me.”

That stopped her. Brandy set her jaw and strode toward her. “Don’t worry. I’ll never impose on your family—”

Lane took her arm. “Stop. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

Good question. “You’re my best friend. We owe it to each other to listen to each other.”

Brandy pointed a finger in her face. “We owe it to each other to share important events firsthand and not hear them from a third party. A sixth, seventh, eighth party.”

“Who told you?”

“Lyla Jenkins.”

“Who’s that?”

She spread her hands. “My point is made.”

Lane let her backpack fall to the ground. “Toby must be telling everybody.”

“Wasn’t he supposed to?”

“I… I don’t know. We didn’t talk about how to tell people.”

“Or
if
you should tell people, in my case.”

“I would’ve. But when you came last night, and then this morning… it didn’t seem the right time.” Brandy eyed her in that knowing way she had. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Brandy slipped her hand through Lane’s arm. “I know what we need.”

Every time Lane saw the sign for Olson’s Ice Cream Shoppe, she was bothered by the two
p’
s. She realized they were there to make it sound old and quaint, but considering the oldest thing in the place was Mr. Olson—and he was more quirky than quaint—it seemed fake. Put on. As an actress she was all for pretending, but she also knew that in order for the illusion to be a success, it had to
seem
real. Olson’s soda-fountain equipment and white ice-cream tables and chairs tried too hard.

But the ice cream was super, and the shop was a favorite spot of farmers and local families, plus the occasional stranger passing through on the way to the Twin Cities.