Second Chance for Romance

Chapter 1

Trip, Wren, and I spent the Monday after Labor Day in Atlanta, packing boxes and loading a rental truck. The next day we drove to his parents’ house in Franklin, where we added even more to our fledgling household. Then we ignored the advice of age and experience (Trip’s father and stepmother) and drove to Knoxville. We probably should have listened, but we were young and eager.

We arrived after dark and spent the next five hours unloading the truck.

Trip and I did most of the grunt work, while Wren sorted and stacked boxes inside. We moved the last piece of furniture, a small couch, to a third-floor bedroom in the wee hours of the morning.

We were exhausted and glad it was over, but the house was ours. We were home.

I woke up after only a few hours. I tried to go back to sleep but finally threw back the covers and swung my feet to the floor. I went to the window and opened the curtains. Streetlights glowed on parked cars, their windows opaque from dew. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

I decided to go for a run, partly to work out the soreness from the move, but also to explore the neighborhood. The streets were laid out in a grid, so it was almost impossible to get lost. I spent a blissful hour jogging through Fort Sanders as the world slowly came to life.

When I returned to the house, I came to a halt at the front porch. I

watched in silent amusement as a hundred-pound bundle of energy, Christy, paced back and forth in high dudgeon. She jabbed the doorbell. Then she pounded on the door. She seemed like she’d been at it for a few minutes.

She wore plaid flannel pajamas that were a couple of sizes too large, which made her look like a kid playing dress-up. Her slippers didn’t help.

They were fluffy white bunnies, complete with cotton-ball tails. She balled her fists and stomped a foot.

The result was less than earth-shattering, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

She rounded on me. She didn’t recognize me at first, but then her eyes widened.

“Mornin’,” I said with exaggerated southern politeness.

“Good morning.” She looked me up and down. “What happened to you?”

I blinked.

“Did you lose weight?”

I felt self-conscious all of a sudden. “A little, yeah.”

“A lot.” Her irritation returned. “Where have you been?”

My shirt was tied around my waist. I was breathing heavily and my bare skin steamed in the cool air. Those should’ve been her first clues. My shorts and running shoes should’ve doubled the clue factor. I looked down at myself, if only to make sure I saw the same thing she did.

“Don’t you ever wear clothes?” she snapped. “And I don’t mean where have you been. I mean all of you. Where have you been?”

“Nice to see you too.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Okay, I give up,” I said at last. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’ve been here for days! Waiting. Where were you?”

The front door opened before I could answer. Wren, clad in a blue terrycloth bathrobe, stared out blearily.

Christy turned. “Where have you been?”

“Wha’?”

I caught Wren’s eye. “She means, ‘Good morning. Nice to see you. May I come in?’”

Wren mumbled something and stepped aside.

I followed them into the house and headed upstairs. “Shower,” I said over my shoulder. “Back in a bit.”

“Clothes!” Christy called after me.

I stuck my head over the railing. “What about ’em?”

As it turned out, Christy had good reason to be annoyed. Wren had forgotten to tell her about the change in plans. So Christy arrived in Knoxville to find the house locked and empty. She’d called Wren’s parents and left several messages, but never heard back. And she didn’t know Trip’s number or mine.

So she’d been waiting five days, with no idea where we were.

Wren apologized profusely, but Christy was still in the mood to fume.

“What did you do?” I asked when she finally paused to breathe.

“I called Sayuri. I’ve been staying with her.”

“Friend of yours?”

She looked at Wren in exasperation. “Is he serious?”

“Probably,” Wren said. She yawned. “Do we have any Coke?”

Christy ignored her and said to me, “Sayuri lives next door. She used to own the house.”

“Ah. That explains your pajamas. They’re fitting, by the way. Very…

Victorian.”

She thought I was making fun of her.

I was, but in a friendly way. I gestured at the house around us. “It’s Victorian too.”

“Is it?” She waved a hand. “It’s just a house.”

“That’s a bit like saying Michelangelo was ‘just an artist.’”

Her five-foot-nothing glare wasn’t very intimidating.

I smiled. “Down, girl. The house isn’t the Sistine Chapel, but it isn’t ‘just a house’ either. It’s a work of art.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Sure it is. You just have to know how to look. There’s beauty in everything.”

Since I was the only one who was awake, showered, and dressed (in clothes and everything, as requested), I offered to make a grocery run.

“We need Coke,” Wren said with another yawn. “And coffee and filters too.” She nudged a cardboard box with her toe. “I’ll find the coffee maker. I hope.”

I nodded and glanced at Christy. “Anything you want, m’lady?”

She tried to decide if I was making fun of her again. “Apples,” she said at last. “Grapes. Maybe a melon.”

“Cantaloupe or watermelon?”

“Cantaloupe. Or honeydew. Whichever is fresher.”

“Anything else?”

“Carrots. Celery. Radishes.”

“In other words, the usual bunny food?”

She turned to Wren. “Has he been like this all summer?”

“Worse,” I said. “And the word you’re looking for is ‘unrepentant.’”

“I was thinking ‘annoying.’”

“That too,” I agreed cheerfully.

We met Sayuri after breakfast. She was a tiny Japanese woman, neither young nor old. I guessed that she was in her early fifties. She had black hair, dark eyes, and a plain face. She spoke with a pronounced accent, but was easy enough to understand if I paid attention. She was unfailingly polite, although she studied Trip and me without seeming to look at us. We were being evaluated, judgment deferred.

Trip must have felt it too, because he didn’t object when I suggested we move Christy’s things to our house. We had to make several trips to haul over four large suitcases, three small ones, a half-dozen dress bags, several large boxes, and more. It must’ve cost a fortune to ship from California.

When we finished we took an impromptu tour around the front of Sayuri’s house. It was also Victorian, smaller than ours, without all the ornamentation and extra rooms. It was built as a workaday house for a wealthy family, a home instead of a statement.

The inside was well-kept and tidy, with a mixture of Japanese and western decorations. We sat at the dining room table and made small talk until Wren brought up the subject of the other renovations.

Sayuri owned two more houses in the neighborhood, one across the street and one a block away. She didn’t entirely trust her current contractor (I couldn’t blame her, especially after her experience with the first guy), but she had no way to know if she was getting the runaround. Trip and I promised to

check things out. She nodded and smiled, agreement without confidence.

Christy said something in Japanese and then nodded at us. Sayuri asked something that sounded suspiciously like, “But they’re so young. How can they possibly know what they’re doing?” She smiled when she said it, but her dark eyes didn’t echo the sentiment. Christy answered respectfully.

I watched their conversation and slowly reevaluated Sayuri. She reminded me of Susan, especially the way her mind worked. I didn’t understand a word she said, although I didn’t really need to. Her manner was restrained, and her voice never rose above polite conversation, but her questions were quick and direct. Her meaning was clear too: she wanted value for her money and wanted to make sure that Trip and I could protect her interests.

Much to my surprise, Christy argued in our favor. She spoke Japanese, although her looks and gestures came through loud and clear. Trip and I knew what we were doing, she explained. Trust us, she said. She folded her hands in front of her and lowered her eyes in deference to the older woman.

Sayuri thought for a moment and then smiled. Once again, I had the feeling of deferred judgment. She clearly liked Christy, but Trip and I would have to earn her trust. Fair enough, I thought. Trip could dig into the contractor’s estimates and expenses, line by line if necessary. And I could do the same for the houses themselves.

Sayuri said to us, in English, that she’d be very grateful if we would advise her on the renovations. We said we’d be happy to, of course. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and then said goodbye.

“I hope we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew,” Trip said. He gestured to our house as we approached. “This place isn’t even close to what I’d call a good job.”

Wren started to object.

“He’s right,” I said. “You probably don’t see it, but we do. It’s little things. Lots of ’em. Rough edges, cut corners, half-assed work.”

“I don’t even know how some of it passed inspection,” Trip said.

“Nonsense,” Wren said. “It’s fine.”

“Fine to live in,” I agreed. “But the work isn’t something I’d brag about.”

Wren started to say something else, but I stopped her again. “Most of the things I’ve noticed are cosmetic. Trip and I can fix them. But it’ll be a problem if we find anything structural.”

“Or any serious code violations.”

“Exactly.”

“And these other two houses might also be a mess—”

“Our house isn’t a mess,” Wren objected. “We had it inspected before we bought it.”

“Okay, maybe not ‘a mess,’” I said to placate her. “But it certainly isn’t up to Hughes-Whitman standards.”

“Whitman-Hughes,” Trip corrected absently.

I grinned. It was a friendly argument we’d had many times.

“But he’s right,” Trip went on. “These other houses might take up a lot of our time, especially if we find problems.” He turned to Christy. “How do you think Sayuri will take that? Does she want to hear the truth, especially if her contractor isn’t… um… up to our standards?”

“Absolutely.”

“Have to be careful, though,” he mused aloud. “We don’t want the job ourselves.”

I perked up. “Why not? I mean, I’d like to see the houses first, but they might be fun projects.”

“No way. Maybe if we could work on ’em full time, but not with school and everything else.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Still, I imagined what we could do with an old Victorian. Most of them had fine bones, even if they’d seen better days. We could make them beautiful again.

We spent the rest of the day unpacking boxes and arranging furniture. Wren and Christy concentrated on the kitchen and dining room. Trip and I worked our way through the living room, octagonal front room, and the little main-floor bedroom.

The next day Trip and Wren worked in the master bedroom, while Christy and I did the same in our separate ones. I heard her struggling to move furniture, so I offered to help. Then I hung around to unpack an entire box of purses and store them on the top shelf in the closet.

“I know what to get you for Christmas,” I teased. “A stepladder.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious. Why do you want these up here? You won’t be able to get

’em down yourself.”

“I don’t need them very often.”

“Then why’d you bring them?”

“In case I do need them.”

“Yeah, but…” I made a quick guess, “Thirty?”

“Most go with formal outfits or cocktail dresses.”

“How many formal events do you plan to attend?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll need the right outfit.” She opened another large box.

“Holy crap! Are those all shoes?”

“Of course. That box too.”

“What do you need all those for?”

“They match different outfits. Some match purses. Some are just pretty. I haven’t found an outfit for them yet.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. Why?” She looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t believe you have all these shoes and purses.” I pointed at the pile of dress bags on the bed. “And those. Same with them?”

“Same what?”

“Formal dresses, cocktail dresses, dresses you haven’t found shoes and a purse for yet?”

She smiled but was clearly nonplussed. “Yes.”

“And you shipped all this stuff from home? From California?”

“How else was I supposed to get it here?”

“Why?”

“Why what? I can’t wear them if they aren’t here.”

“Why do you even need all this?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Clearly.”

She knew she was being insulted. She bristled like a Chihuahua snapping at a Doberman. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me. What don’t I understand? And what’s it to you anyway?”

“Whoa! Sorry I asked. You can have whatever you want. It’s your stuff.”

She continued to look belligerent until I gestured innocuously at the shoe boxes.

“You want me to put those in the top of the closet too?”

She wasn’t ready to back down but couldn’t find a reason to argue.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “Please.”

I stacked shoe boxes on the shelf below the purses. I silently counted—

twenty-one—but knew better than to make a comment.

The mood between us slowly defrosted.

I helped her hang dress bags—six of them, with several dresses in each—

which filled half the closet. Once again, I kept my comments to myself.

I collapsed the empty cardboard boxes while she unpacked her everyday shoes and lined them along the bottom of the closet. She just kept adding more, from sneakers to loafers to docksides. She even had a couple of pairs of knee-high boots. She had six pairs of jellies alone, almost every color of the rainbow. The girl liked shoes. What could I say?

I managed to compose my expression by the time she finished.

“Thanks for helping.”

“My pleasure.”

“And thanks for letting me have the room with the bigger closet.”

“It was luck,” I said, “but I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I just wish it were bigger.”

I swallowed a laugh.

“What?”

“I don’t hear that very often.”

“Hear wha—? Oh!” Her tan cheeks turned rosy.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“Very funny.”

I shrugged, unabashed.

“Speaking of which,” she said after a moment, “how’s Gracie?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“You ‘guess’?”

“Well, yeah. ‘I guess.’ I haven’t talked to her in a while. A couple of months.”

“A couple of months? Some boyfriend you are!”

“What? Why should—? Hold on… Gracie and I broke up. Didn’t Wren tell you?”

“I told her n— Um… I mean, no, she didn’t.”

“It was a while ago. Before the summer. But after you left, I guess.”

“What happened?”

“Long story. We weren’t ‘compatible,’ I guess you’d say.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” She didn’t sound very sorry at all. She must’ve heard it too, because she immediately said, “So I guess you had fun this summer.”

Something about her tone made me frown. “How d’you mean?”

“Nothing. Just that you could date a lot of different girls.”

I heard the euphemism and felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “Is that what you think I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“That I sleep around?”

“You mean you don’t?”

I clamped down on my temper. Then I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through my nose.

Christy practically dared me to say something snide.

“I’d better get back to work,” I said instead. “In my own room.”

I didn’t speak to her the next day. I wasn’t rude about it, but she was persona non grata around me. She had a huge argument with Wren too. Trip and I stayed clear of both of them, which suited me fine.

The following morning I returned from my run to find Christy waiting on the porch. I couldn’t ignore her without being a jerk, so I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She shifted nervously as I waited.

“I talked to Wren yesterday,” she said at last.

“I heard.” The neighbors probably had too.

“She told me about the summer.”

“What about it?”

“About trying to set you up with her friends.”

I felt a stab of irritation with Wren too, not only for the matchmaking, but also for discussing my private life.

Christy fidgeted with the hem of her pajama top. “She said you didn’t date anyone at all.”

That word again! “And?”

“And I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t ready to forgive her just yet. “What for?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Are you sorry you called me a man-whore, or just sorry you were wrong?”

“I—!” Her eyes fell. “Both, I guess.”

My anger flared anew, and I bounded up the stairs. “What gives you the right to judge me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know. You’re right. I—”

“And why do you care who I ‘date’?” I made it sound like pious doublespeak, which it was. “It’s my business, not yours. Don’t apply your goody two shoes Catholic schoolgirl morals to me!”

I stormed inside and slammed the door for good measure.

I replayed the whole thing in my head while I stood under the shower.

When I finally calmed down, long after the hot water ran out, I felt a mixture of frustration and guilt. Christy had no right to judge me by her standards.

And I had no right to yell at her when she was only trying to apologize.

Worse, I had no idea why I’d gotten so upset.

I dressed and went to find her. She was sitting at the kitchen table, poking halfheartedly at a slice of cantaloupe.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It’s all right. You were right. I shouldn’t have judged you.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s enough blame to go around.”

She nodded glumly.

Wren entered the kitchen in her blue bathrobe. She yawned. “What was all the shouting and slamming about?”

“No clue,” I lied smoothly. “Must’ve been the neighbors.”

“Or crazy people,” Christy added.

“Definitely,” I agreed. “Crazy people.”

We shared a hesitant grin.

Wren filled Mr. Coffee and started him gurgling for Trip. “Well, I hope they’re gone now.”

“Me too.”

She grabbed a Coke and shuffled out of the kitchen.

Christy and I were silent. The tension had ebbed between us, but it wasn’t

completely gone.

“Want some cereal?”

“Yes, please.”

I set out two bowls.

She went to the refrigerator. She passed me the carton of milk and then poured two glasses of orange juice.

I opened the pantry. “Grape Nuts or Froot Loops?”

“Whichever you want.”

My hand wavered between them.

“On second thought, Froot Loops.”

I chuckled.

“What?”

“I’d just decided the same thing.”

“Oh. Good.”

We sat across from each other and ate in silence.

“I never realized…,” I said at last.

“What?”

“That bunnies eat Froot Loops.”

“They do.” She smiled into her bowl. “But only on special occasions.”