Second Time Around (38 page)

He remembered this now but hadn’t at the time. And that fact bothered him. A lot. He was seventy-seven years old. Up until now, he’d rejected all suggestion that he should retire or pass the reigns of the bank to someone younger.

More able?

He turned his chair away from the expanse of the city and noticed a picture of Vanessa and her family on his desk. He picked it up, really looking at his daughter for the first time in years. She was not a pretty woman anymore. Her hair had thinned and was cut in a nondescript short shag. She had bags under her eyes. And even though she was smiling, there was no joy there.

Joy. What was that?

Yardley tried to remember a time he’d felt true joy. Decades rewound without stopping until an image appeared, that of a little Vanessa, sitting on his lap at another office desk in another bank building. He had his arm around her, pulling her close as he showed her how to use an adding machine.
Ca-chunk, ca-chunk.

“This is fun, Daddy.”

And it had been. One moment of joy in a life filled with… what?

He touched Vanessa’s photo-cheek but only felt the cold of the glass. He sucked in a breath, breaking the moment. “She’ll be home day after tomorrow.”

But the words fell flat. They had no substance. They had no bearing or truth. For in his heart, he knew she wouldn’t be coming back. She was with her mother now—lively, exasperating, but loving Dorian. She was having her baby. The past held love for her. Promise.

The present held… no such thing.

He pulled the photo to his chest and cried.

Peachtree City

Rachel Caldwell sat on the window seat of her childhood room and looked outside but saw nothing. Apparently heard nothing either, because when she finally realized her father, Dudley, was outside the door, it was clear it was not his first knock, or the first time he’d called her name.

“Rachel? Are you okay in there?”

She let her feet find the floor. “Yes, Dad, I’m fine. Just a minute.” She unlocked the door and opened it. “Sorry.”

“You know I hate a locked door.”

“I know. Again, I’m sorry.”

He looked past her as if looking for clues. “Want something for dinner?”

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Me, neither.” He looked pitiful standing there with his hands in his pockets. “I… I really like your new hair. And the clothes. You look very pretty, Rachel.”

She touched her hair. “Thanks.” She thought about telling her father this is the way she always looked away from the Pruitt-Caldwell sphere, but saw no reason to be mean. “Want to sit down?”

He looked warily into the room. Had he ever come in and talked? “Sure,” he said, and took her place on the window seat but faced toward the room. He didn’t say anything. It was awkward.

She sat at the foot of the bed and pulled her legs beneath her, trying to give a casual tone to the scene—however false. “I’m sorry to embarrass the family with that interview. Going against Grandfather and all…”

“It needed to be said.”

Really?
“Have you heard from him?”

Her father hesitated. “No.”

“Should we call him?”

He slid his hands beneath his thighs. “You did what the rest of us should have done a long time ago.”

She let her jaw drop.

He laughed. “It was wrong keeping Dorian from Vanessa. If I would have known…” He shook his head. “Who’s kidding whom? I honestly can’t say I would have done anything to intervene.”

“Why not?”

He looked past her and shrugged. “Habit mostly. Your mother and I have been guilty of letting Yardley use us. We’ve always been at his beck and call. When we were first married I didn’t like it much but eventually jumped into the flow of it. It was easier to go along than fight.”

A question popped out. “Did you and Mother ever really love each other?”

She could tell by his quick breath that he was going to say, “Of course,” but he stopped himself. She suspected—and hoped—what would come out next would be the truth. “We loved each other at first. At least I did. And I love your mother still, I really do.”

“But?”

“But there are different kinds of love. We shouldn’t have married. I think we both got cheated. If she comes back, I’ll try to do better. Be a better husband.”

Silence hung between them.

“I don’t think she’ll come back, Dad.”

He nodded and his forehead crumbled. Then he abruptly stood. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? I make a mean omelet.”

“Sure. That would be nice.”

Kansas City

Andrew ran up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door.

Mac called up to him. “Andrew! You come back here this minute!”

He wasn’t surprised when nothing happened, and he didn’t feel like being a consistent father by pushing the matter. Andrew’s anger was Mac’s fault. Andrew wanted to see Cheryl and at age six didn’t understand that it wasn’t as simple as a phone call. Cheryl had to actually answer the phone for it to do any good.

And so far she hadn’t.

Mac sat on the stairs and leaned his head against the railing. He was out of energy, both physically and emotionally. Yet in two days, when the winners returned from their pasts—or stayed behind—he had to be
on
and be in charge. The thought of dealing with the press and being the essence of charm was like asking him to climb Mt. Everest. He needed someone to carry him. Pull him along.

I’m here.

He nodded at the inner words. God was here. Yes, that did make it better. More doable. He whispered into the railing. “I want her back, Lord. I’m so sorry for hurting her. Bring her back to me. To us. I won’t take her for granted anymore. I pro—”

The doorbell rang. Reporters? Maybe if he remained perfectly still they’d go away.

Then there was a knock. But not just any knock. A rhythmic knock Mac had come to know.

He ran down the rest of the stairs and flung open the door, halting the action of her wrist as it readied itself to repeat the pattern. “Hey,” she said.

His chin quivered. “Oh, Cheryl… I’m so sorry.”

She took his hand. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

They went inside and closed the door. In the entry, she pulled their clasped hands upward between them, adding her other hand to the mix. “It
is
all your fault, you know,” she said.

“I know. I should have owned up to our relationship.”

“True, but that’s not what I’m talking about. All this is your fault because you made me love you. I can’t stay away. I can’t stay mad. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

He pulled her into his arms where she belonged.

A door upstairs opened. “Cheryl!” Andrew hurtled down the stairs. He jumped off the last few steps, barreled into them, and made them lose their balance. They fell onto the floor, a tangle of arms and legs. Oblivious, Andrew crawled over whatever was in the way and wrapped his arms around her neck. “I missed you!”

She hugged him back. “I missed you too, bud.”

Andrew got to his feet and stood between them, casting one arm around his father and the other around Cheryl. “Are you getting married now or what?”

Mac looked at Cheryl and they laughed. “Remember how I told you when I got around to proposing you’d know it?”

“I do.”

“So…?”

She got to her knees and leaned toward him, giving him a proper kiss. Andrew’s applause made everything perfect.

Montebello

When all the press attention started, Toby had hoped to go back to work as a conquering hero. He’d even daydreamed about quitting his job. After all, as the love of Lane Holloway’s life there was no need for him to work.

Daydreams. Pipe dreams. Dead dreams.

Reality won. There were bills to pay. And ribbing to take.

As Toby drove to work, his dread was as heavy as his foot was light. He’d called in sick yesterday but couldn’t push it, even though he
was
going to be way late. He tried to brace himself for the heckling and the jokes. He’d even come up with a decent comeback line that might fend them off, “Hey, it was worth a shot.”

If only he didn’t feel so weary. His extra day off hadn’t brought him rest. Reporters were still camped outside his apartment, though the numbers
were
down. He’d taken the phone off the hook. What did they want him to say anyway? He’d come forward based on the lie that Laney still wanted him. It was her lie. None of this was his fault. In fact, he should sue the Time Lottery for… what did they call it? Pain and suffering? Mental cruelty? A friend of his had a brother-in-law who was a lawyer…

He went through McDonald’s and got lunch and then stopped for gas. But finally, he couldn’t put it off any longer. A Big Mac seemed like a very bad idea when he pulled up to the job site and saw his coworkers strapping on their tool belts after their lunch break, when he saw them point at him. Lean close together. Laugh.

Keep driving. You don’t need this. You don’t need them.

But he did. He really needed things to get back to normal so he could forget any of this happened.

He got out of his truck, grabbed his toolbox and belt from the back, and walked toward them.

Their words pummeled him and he froze in place.

“Decided to lower yourself to our level, Bjornson?”

“Dumped in the past, dumped in the present, eh, Tobe?”

“Getting the shaft in two lifetimes. Isn’t that a new world record?”

“You were real smooth on TV.
‘Uh… duh.’
Oh yeah, you’re in Lane Holloway’s league all right.”

“Maybe you
could
go change her light bulbs or unclog her toilet.”

“Once a loser, always a loser. Ain’t that right, Tobe?”

“You thought you were hot stuff, didn’t you?”

“You fizzled big-time. On national TV, too.”

“Hey, can I have your autograph?”

His confidence evaporated and the muscles in his arm tensed.

One of them shoved his shoulder. “What’s the matter, Tobe? Can’t take the heat?”

In one sweeping motion of his arm, Toby’s toolbox landed against the left side of the guy’s head.

They jumped him.